


Failsafe

by Weirdling_Joi



Series: Bringing Castiel Back One AU at a Time [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Castiel-centric, Episode Related, Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, Fix-It, Gen, Male Friendship, Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, Temporary Amnesia, Temporary Character Death, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-03 21:30:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 37
Words: 28,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10975695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weirdling_Joi/pseuds/Weirdling_Joi
Summary: What if Cas's nine lives don't come from direct, divine intervention, but something set in his make.





	1. Death

**Author's Note:**

> I am a long term reader of SPN fanfic, but I have never tried my hand at any. I'm not good at writing modern day fiction. But this last episode, I found myself endlessly looping those final moments. And so I had to write a fix it. I originally played with this idea in my head during the Amara conflict, but I feel it better fits this season. The angel folklore isn't based off any real research but rather some ideas I am playing with in some original fiction inspired by Castiel and Dean.
> 
> This isn't betaed. And is prone to random tweaking. And short chapters.

Dean replayed the memory a hundred times in his head, like a DVD stuck on a loop. But like a DVD, he couldn't change it. Every time he tried a different outcome, it skipped back to the beginning, over and over again. The relief, punctured by the shock, then pain.

Cas was gone. For real this time. The scorched earth beneath his knees proved it. Gone.

His mother, gone.

Cas gone.

These few feet of earth measured his loss, was his world.

Did he pray between repetitions of the relief-shock-pain loop? Did he curse? He couldn't remember. Everything was wiped clean over and over again. There was only Mary falling; the rift closing. There was only Cas dying, his grace and wings burning away.

There was only the loss.


	2. Waking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See the notes on chapter one.

He had slept millennia, so long he had almost forgotten his name. But he hadn't forgotten the loss--it was a part of him. _His brethren falling in the war with the Darkness like a cascade of feathers. The sudden ripple of victory song among those still standing, killing the staccato beats of pain. The brief snap of relief trembling through every feather. Then Father's hand upon his head:_

_"Sleep until you are needed."_

_But there was pain, still so much pain, and he was meant to heal--_

_"Sleep, Cassiel."_

Yes.

That was his name.

And he had obeyed.

Until pain awoke him again.

It was not his brothers', but something nearer, tasting entirely foreign to him, yet familiar all the same. 

Recognition came slowly, for two of his eight wings were hideously scorched and mangled, and the feathers there dulled to most sensations but their own pain.

But this came from outside him.

This came from . . . a charge.

Two charges.

Knowledge trickled in from the touch of his charge, from the feathers touching, tasting, questing, learning . . . 

The pain came from . . . human charges.

Whatever that was.

The particulars of the species didn't matter.

One thing did. 

His nearest was hurting, was wanting, needing him in endless, looping refrain, and it was his duty to grant relief. 

But first . . . Cassiel sat up, with a gasp, and tugged at the layered appendages trapped beneath his charge. "You are on my wings."


	3. Overload

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More made up angel worldbuilding.

His human stared at him before lunging at him, grappling with him, and gasping out, "Cas."

Emotions exploded across their bond, strengthened by the call of him and through the physical contact--which had not been removed, but only multiplied. His feathers stiffened under the overload of strange input, but soon enough a few loosened up, freed to tremor, to taste, to process information.

And Cassiel realized his mistake. 

The language of his charge was not any form of Enochian.

It was something called English.

The human had not understood.

Within a second of this discovery, Cassiel had plucked enough knowledge to revise his statement. "You are on my wings."

At the same time, he did this, he had gleaned a proper response was required. Among his brethren, they would touch feather tips, letting the essence of each other blend, and become one. They were one, in that moment. 

A human lacked the necessary appendages for this emotional expression. It used arms instead and a simpler wavelength that radiated out like a star, with flares of different flavors and intensities here and there. 

Research indicated he should reciprocate this strong emotion. It--he--wanted him to reciprocate. This would relieve his human's pain.

So Cassiel wrapped his free wings around him, separating them as he went so one became proper three. The fourth propped him place. He daubed—lightly—oh so lightly for the human form was so small—the emotions and the energies that would grant relief to angels would overwhelm him. 

The human shivered, not quite sensing, not quite ignorant of his reciprocation. 

In the same moment, the human--whose mental wavelengths were of a shorter, slower nature than his own--processed his words.

"Your--Cas, you crazy son of a bitch." The human moved back to the length of his grappling appendages, and stared at him. Wingtips were the most sensitive, detecting part of Cassiel's anatomy. "Hands" seemed to fill a similar role in the human, and they squeezed his "shoulders"--

And unrest bristled along pinned and unpinned feathers alike as Cassiel realized he shared something in common with his human.

Shoulders.

They both possessed a human body.

Cassiel had been so overwhelmed by his waking, by his human’s call, he had not sensed . . . how could he not sense . . . ? 

Because his charge was demanding, all consuming, like the archangels, like Father when they demanded attention.

Some of his mental processes moved to discover the meaning of his charge’s phrase and to formulate a response--

"My Father is not a female dog."

\--but some that he could spare, he focused elsewhere.

On a body.

This body.

That he was in.

Then distraction flared fresh: Cassiel was squeezed harder, grappled with again--"hugged" --and the human “laughed” into his neck, warm breath puffing, contrasting against the salty wetness leaking from his eyes. 

Distraction: The breath was interesting. So were the structures that created them. But the wetness was less so. 

Purpose: Gleanings indicated the wetness—“tears”— was connected with lingering pain. Pain that had halved since he had stirred, spoken, been hugged. If Cassiel could find out the connection, what he had done to soothe, he could--

Confusion: The human's mind was a blur of emotions, a frisson of events. Simple though they were, Cassiel didn't understand them. In them, the human had seen him die, die the scattering death, going out to the universe. 

In them, he had been a guardian for a while. A long while by the human’s reckoning.

Or rather some angel in this vessel had.

Vessel. 

That was the term for a borrowed human body. Cassiel looked down at himself, most of his feathers forgetting their discomfort and old and new pain, as they focused less on his human and more on his vessel. He flexed the extremity of his upper appendage, the most sensitive parts of it, the fingers. Then he returned it its resting placing against his lower, human appendage. He had never had a vessel before. There had been no vessels during the War with the Darkness. But he knew, as he was meant to know, that possession of vessels required permission. He had not asked permission. 

But he must have gained it.

His feathers stood on ends in realization: He was missing pieces of himself. 

He must be damaged. How? When? The answers, the answers to everything, must lay in the broken, burnt feathers that made up most of his wings, the constant source of pain. 

He had pushed them as far from his thought processes as he could upon waking, to be ready for his duty free from distraction. Perhaps that had been a mistake. 

If he healed them . . . 

But the human's needs spread among his feathers like corruption, infecting feather after feather with hurt and relief, relief and hurt. If he ignored it any longer, it would overwhelm, and he’d be helpless to fix it.

His human first. Himself second. As it should be. 

His charge was pulling away, this time not so joyfully, and it turned out Cassiel was not the only one confused. A new, brightening bit of hurt threatened to burst forth from the human as he spoke, "Cas?"


	4. Song from the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could get Gabriel's voice. :-( But I had to have him here anyway. I miss him.

The healers sang songs that reached the most frozen-minded of his brethren. Feathers played at just the right moment, in the right order, with just the right touch mended minds and absorbed pain. Even, at one point, during worst of the battle, he had tried it on Amara, and she had paused and almost seen him.

"Do not do that again," Gabriel warned him. He slipped his feathers along his, cutting off his song, and laying in the desire to put a few stars between him and the battlefield as soon as the reprimand was finished. "Keep your distance." 

"My role is to heal. She needs healing, not more pain. If we could try--"

Gabriel laughed and ruffled his feathers as he released him. "It is a good thing you are not a warrior, Cassiel. What she needs is slaying." 

And his brother was gone, and the pressure roared in, pressing his feathers flat. Cassiel could not even argue. The heavy burden of orders did not lift until he flew to the requisite distance to watch his brothers fall, blazing in the dark. Their scattered essences added a mellow note to his song. They were not forgotten. He'd remember them all.

That too was his role. "Every angel ever made and ever will be made will be known by you." 

Life was far simpler when Creation had just started, when the enemy was pain that crippled and Amara, she who threatened to wink out all life hung in the cosmos.

This human was not responding to his song. No matter which feathers worked, pressed, sent, the human was growing increasingly distressed. How could one sing when a human could not hear but a splinter of it? 

The human's hands grabbed his vessel's face. The name the charge had given him--thought at him--longed at him-- though not quite his name--became even more fractured with emotion. Shoulders tensed beneath Cassiel's invisible ministrations. But hurt only deepened. 

Cassiel was failing.

He had lost too much himself; some of his best feathers were gone. The others were out of tune. He had forgotten too much, and there so much more to the universe now.

 _Try harder,_ he told himself. _He is but one. You soothed thousands at once, even when your wings sank beneath their deaths, their pain. Thousands. Why can't I help this one?_

On the edge of that thought came hope: _You are missing something._

_What--?_

_Of course!_

"Every angel ever made and ever will be made will be known by you."

That was why he meant to be the greatest of healers. He knew them before many knew themselves.

He stopped the press of feathers in the configuration of healing, and spent them on questing, on knowing his human thoroughly.

Brother. Hunter. Briefly a father. Son. Friend. Loner--always alone, always afraid of being alone, always afraid of letting anyone in.

So many memories featured humans, things, emotions, events, creatures he didn't know, that he could spend years tracing along the network of point to point to point. He only had time for a flicker-fast, surface reading.

"Cas?"

And he tried again. This time the human sensed something, releasing Cassiel's face to grasp his arm, where the bond had been sealed. "What the---Cas?!"

Something had been heard, felt. Their connection shifted. His own essence shifted. He opened his vessels' eyes. Eyes he had not realized he had closed. And responded instinctively, "Hello, Dean."

Something lightened instantly in his human. So close to success--

Of course, that was when the second charge approached, his needs rolling over them both like thunder. "Cas?"

It knocked Cassiel over. Pounding into him. Freezing feathers. Clouding senses. Consuming him. 

He had gotten too close again.

“Sorry, Gabriel. I remember.” And this time he removed himself to a safe distance.


	5. Flight Arrested

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a bad memory for location details. Was the cabin by an ocean or a lake? I'll have to rewatch the earlier parts for more details, but I tried to be vague. I am also posting this earlier in the day, mostly because my hours are so crazy at work, I can't post anything tonight.

The problem with humans was there was no safe distance. Cassiel had mistaken the shortness, the scale of their emotional, mental reach. It only quickened and clawed the longer he flew.

The problem with himself was he could not fly far. His wings. Under the pressure of his charges' pain, he had forgotten his own. The two sets of flight wings could move, but they could not bear him through the ether. They stretched and shortly cracked; they were thousands of shards stabbing him, and they failed him swiftly. The remaining wings could not compensate long. They were weak and not meant to take on the burden of flight. He lost his way, fell back along the trail he had carved, fell back as if dragged, fell. Fell. 

Until he was no longer in the ether.

But he was still falling. Then he struck something colder and vaster than his human's tears. Into these watery depths, he sank.

Not even that dulled the calls from his charges or shards of his wings or the ache of failure freezing his feathers.

Down Cassiel went, until he lost track of even himself.


	6. Sam's News

"What the hell?" Dean scrambled to his feet, hampered by the tight grip on his left arm, right below the shoulder. "What the hell?!" 

It mirrored the words on Sam's own lips. He stared at his brother, not believing what he had seen. Cas was awake. No, Cas was _alive_. But first things first. He nodded at his brother's relentless rubbing motion. "Are you okay? What happened to your arm?" 

"Nothing. There's nothing." Dean's hand dropped, fingers clenching and unclenching in a fist. "Where did he flap off to, dammit." He shouted at the sky. "Cas, get your ass back here!"

That meant there had been something, but Dean wasn't ready to talk about it. He didn't look any worse for wear, so Sam allowed himself to think again about his friend.

There had been the sound of flapping. A little crisper, more brittle than before, like branches breaking, but he had heard it, and Cas was gone just like years ago, when he took after Dean a little too much in the denial department. But none of that mattered. He was back, he was better. "How did he get his wings back?" Sam's gaze flickered to the ground. Scorch marks remained, next to the dropped angel blade, but they no longer made a full pattern of death. Because Cas was not dead. He jaw ached, and he realized it was from smiling too hard. "Chuck? What?"

The ache softened as he realized the unlikelihood of that. It was just them three. Original Team Free Will back together again. Mom was nowhere in sight.

"Upgrade?" Dean's scoff broke through Sam's disappointment before it could grow sharp enough to cut. "Right. Cas! Get back here!" 

The number of emotions flickering through his brother's face could make up a book. "What?"

"Nothing. It's--" Whatever Dean wasn't going to say was interrupted by a splash. "Did you hear that?" His eyes widened, that was Sam's only warning. Then like his friend, his brother took off--running in that direction of the noise.

"Wait!" He had been so surprised by what he had seen, and his mind had been so full of what he needed to do to get his brother moving, that he never told Dean what he had seen in the house. Dean didn't know anything of the nephilim. The child that was not a child. The child that had leered at him, eyes glowing in the dark before disappearing without a sound. Not a single wing flap. 

He could be anywhere. He could want anything. Given their luck of late, what he wanted was probably bloody.

But his brother had taken off.

"Dean!" He scooped up the nearest weapon, the bloodied angel blade on the ground, and ran after his brother. "Wait, it might be Jack!"


	7. Prior Claims

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The day was somewhat stressful, so I got this out after all. I think I will still have a post for tomorrow.

Jack was involved--just not in the way the Sam feared. He got to Cassiel first, dragging him from the depths to the shore, to get a closer look at his stepfather. Or what had become of his stepfather. 

The only one remaining in his life. Jack had never been alone before. Before his mother sensed him, before Jack was strong enough to converse with her, he knew her, inside and out. She was a part of him.

So was his father.

So was his stepfather.

And then he was alone, and he couldn't bear the all-consuming thought of it, so he hid away in the corner of his birth home, alone, alone. He didn't want to be alone; he couldn't be alone. He couldn't think; all he could do was feel. The world was so vast, and none of it belonged to him.

Until part of it did again.

The favored one of his stepfather remained ignorant, dull and self-absorbed in his grief. Missing the ripple of grace, a thousand colors and sensations humans couldn't perceive, flicking through the space where Castiel had been, growing, building, roaring, exploding into life. Life flushed away death, and grace filled out, smoothing away all loss.

And in the most interesting way. Stepfather had been broken, hurting, just like this world—and both were eager to be healed. Changed. By him.

But somehow Castiel had changed himself first. 

Where there had been three sets of wings, now there were four. Where there was a warrior, there was now a healer. Where there was a being corrupted by the humans and their world, there was one pure.

Where there had been Castiel, now there was Cassiel. Different angels, yet the same. One locked away in the other, like Jack had been in his mother, like the future was in Jack. 

One had woken from the death of the other. Just like himself and Mother.

Jack could recognize a sign; they were meant for each other for all eternity.

And he would have claimed his newly made stepfather right away if not for the presence of the interloper, he who would take his family away. 

The other charge. 

Sam Winchester.

But this one remained under his stepfather's protection, a damage left over from the time before, just as two sets of damaged wings had woken with Stepfather. Given how concerned Castiel was with these particular humans in his prior life, given how concerned Cassiel was now in this one, Jack knew better than to harm any of them. 

A warning would suffice. 

A flare of the eyes, for the interloper was unworthy of his first words, gifts meant for his stepfather. If only he could have had Cassiel's first words for his own treasure. 

But already Cassiel was overwhelmed by his favored one; just woken and already being used by his charge.

Jack would not be like that.

Warning complete, the interloper froze in fear, but it would not last. So Jack made good his retreat. He had to render himself invisible and intangible, and scamper away. No one had taught him how to fly.

Yet.

The second the favored one looked away, Cassiel was his. He’d introduce himself, and they would be together forever. 

The very second. 

Any second now.

The opportunity never came. Cassiel never noticed his family waiting for him. Instead, wings stiffening with panic, Cassiel made himself intangible and shot himself through the air. A thing of beauty that a human could never appreciate. The arc of the wing. The rending of the ether. The molding of space. Flight was an act of domination over the world.

A gift from his Grandfather. 

Humans were unworthy.

Jack lifted his wings, every feather, every muscle of single set straining, every fiber of his being longing to soar with him. But Jack could not, and all too soon, his stepfather's reign over gravity ended prematurely.

In a plummet.

In unconsciousness.

In his rescue. By himself. Ha, could the precious Winchesters manage that? No.

But Jack had no sooner laid Cassiel on the shore when the favored one dashed toward him. Bumbling. Awkward. Hungry to start his demands all over again.

 _So I have to waste my words on the unworthy after all,_ he thought, and he moved between the challengers and his stepfather. There he asserted his claim with a flare of wings and eyes, with the intonation:

“No. Stop. He is mine.”


	8. Track Records

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I looked at the SPN wiki, and I didn't see anything about nephilim wings. And I can't remember if the nephilim Cas killed that time flew or not. So I gave Jack some, but they are more like the wings on a penguin or ostrich. I think if he is going to teleport, it will be more like that woman--Lily?--who used Enochian magic to kill Cas's comrades in arms.

The favored one drew up short. Profanity filled his mind and poured out his mouth, "What the f***?" His gaze flicked up and down Jack's form, startled by the wings and eyes, before lingering somewhat lower. "Who are you, nature boy?"

The loudness of his contempt and thoughts made Jack's checks burn. He had not realized until this moment something was inappropriate about his appearance, his nakedness.

It was not his fault. Jack drew up his chin. No one had taught him. Castiel would have taught him; Cassiel would teach him.

"I am no angel, I'm--"

The pronouncement was drowned out by the arrival of the secondary charge of his stepfather. "Dean!" he panted. "That's Jack." He put himself forward, brandishing the angel blade. "That's the nephilim. That’s Kelly’s child."

“Big baby,” Dean murmured taking in Jack’s form again, lingering on the eyes, and recognition struck. Panic flooded his thoughts; his mind raced for a weapon. They were never without weapons, except this time, Dean was.

But not his brother.

Sam’s mind focused on stratagems, most of them concerned stabbing and wings burning out, a few concerned what his guardian had wanted and was willing to die for; he was working on a negotiation, an appeal to Jack’s “human nature.” Interlaced throughout was imagery from the house, dead Mother, Jack himself huddling in a corner, eyes bright in warning.

Not the favored one. Dean’s mind hardened like the precious metal in his brother's hand. 

“Enough.” He snapped his wings to stop the path of their thoughts. “That blade is my stepfather's. It is built upon his grace." Jack held out a hand. "I demand its return before you leave."

Dean's eyes flicked over “Cas,” and something other than Jack’s death interlaced _his_ thoughts. Claim. Fierce in its faith.

Threatening.

"No." Jack dropped his hand and stepped closer, the exposed shadow of his wings bristling in anger and warning. Sam stepped closer but not to hand over that which did not belong to them. "Stepfather is not yours."

"The f*** he's yours." 

A thousand ways to kill them flooded Jack’s mind. They had already faced several of the favorite ones in their lifetime: Snap his fingers, and they de-atomize. Wave his hand, and they land and drown in the water. Squeeze his fist, and their lungs pour out their mouths. He liked that last one, he truly did. They'd stop speaking then, but . . . 

Jack’s wings sagged with the realization that Stepfather would not like him to do that. Stepfather would get mad. Stepfather might leave. 

Unless Jack kept him from doing so.

But Cassiel was an unknown quantity. Best not test him until Jack knew the extent of his own powers. He had never killed; it might not work well the first time. He had never bound another with his will, and he'd rather not do that Stepfather. 

He'd use his words then. "Cassiel is mine."

Confusion scrunched the favored one's brow, then the expression shifted to a scoff, which he wielded like a weapon. "I think you forgot more than pants, kid. That's Cas _tiel_."

"I know. He was mine too."

 _"Was."_ The words were spat out, tinged with the emotional pain that had driven Stepfather to premature flight. "He's right there, and he's coming with us."

But Sam's thoughts were bending a different way, though he didn't lower his guard. "Did you--did you heal Cas--Castiel?"

"Heal?" Dean laughed. "Right. His _father_ murdered him, and you--" His gaze cut back to Jack. "You didn't fall far from the tree, did you?" Dean made a mockery of looking about, while his mind envisioned painful, bloody ways Jack’s mother had died. To him, they all ended with her lamenting her fate, hating her unborn son. "I don't see mother dear here. She wouldn't have let you outside without your nappies." He nodded at the wings. "You're not impressing anyone with the light show, short stuff." Thinking, _he looks like an ostrich._ "Put them away and go home. We'll send your father to you soon enough."

"Dean," Sam warned.

"Do not think of my mother that way. Don't speak of her that way." To his shame, Jack's voice shook. "She--" He shook his head. "It was inevitable. And my wings are not stunted."

"No, that's your track record, kid. You can't even stand there without burning a hole in the sand. You want an angel to play burn the house down with? Get your own."

No, that was not true--but doubt seeped in like blood, solidified like the earth turning into glass beneath his feet. Jack had thought himself careful when he retrieved Stepfather. But now that he looked, he knew he had not been. Same as he had not noticed the burnt footprints Sam had remembered in the house. Same as he had not noticed until now the ones left on the shore after he had become tangible and visible.

He had left a burn marks on Stepfather’s wings.

He had been careless.

He did not know how not to. 

He did not know himself. 

That was why he needed Cassiel. 

"You are wrong. I rescued him from sinking. You made him fall. You forced him to flight when we was incapable."

Dean's anger was sharper than angel blades now. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Your 'track record' is more impressive than mine." _Your damage wrought upon him greater._ Jack nodded at the silent mouthed one, though he was far from silent minded. Sam was torn between hoping Jack could be made to help further and suspecting they would have to kill him instead and fearing how much they'd lose in the attempt. "You, Sam, used a blade like that one and stabbed 'Cas' in the back." He turned back to Dean and used another memory of Castiel's against him. "You, Dean, summoned Death to reap him. You've only ever used him and tossed him aside when he was broken. I won't use him. I will never leave him. I will never let him die. I love him." He straightened his drooping wings, reinvigorated the fires in his eyes, and said, "You base your claim on need and want. I base mine on love. My claim is stronger."

Shock that he knew their names and betrayals was bludgeoned away by guilt and remembered evidence.

Satisfied, Jack chose that moment to render himself and Stepfather invisible and intangible. 

He made sure to touch only the already burnt wings, so the pain and damage he'd cause would be minimized. 

Then he picked up his stepfather and ran off as fast as his human feet would carry him.

It was very fast. For Jack was only partly human.


	9. Plans of Glass

"I'm going to kill that kid."

Sam looked away from the spot where the nephilim had stood and where Cas had lain. No flapping sounds marked their departure. Just a stretch of glass remained. "Not till he opens the rift."

"Right, Sammy, so we just beg 'pretty please, give our angel back, and oh, by the way, there is this other world we want you to take us to. We have a corpse to pick up and your dad to kill.' That's going to go over well."

Sam gritted his teeth and knelt and used the tip of the angel blade to pry at the glass. "I was thinking more of Enochian cuffs--" _and some Enochian magic--_ "and a summoning spell. If he revived Cas, he can revive Mom. If she is dead. We can't count her out. There aren't many people who can sucker punch the Devil."

"Exactly. You really think Mom and her brass knuckles lasted a second in that world with him? There's going to be nothing left to save." 

Dean might have gone on and on. He was in the self-destructive mood that would end with self-medicating via a six-pack or two, but only after he tore anyone and everyone a new one, for anything was better than hoping again. 

But something stopped him short; he flinched back, grabbing at his own left arm. "Don't use that."

Don't use--? Oh. Sam looked at the blade, at the blood on it, and stood. "Yeah, we can use the blood to summon Cas if need be." He wiped his brow. Even with Jack gone, this patch still radiated heat if you got close enough to it. "I wasn't thinking."

"That's not--that's not what I meant." Dean rubbed high up on his forearm, near the shoulder. "Just don't use it." 

Yeah. 

Yeah, Sam got it now. If he thought long on it, the horror of what could have been would sear on his mind like tattered wings on ground. "Dean. He's alive. Jack wants to keep him alive."

"Until he pisses him off. He's good at that." His brother laughed, fingers clenching hard around his arm, knuckles staining white, before resuming the new tic. One Sam didn't know what to make of. "He's good at dying."

The last was just a whisper directed at the place where their friend had lain on the shore. Dean's face was twisted in a grimace, but his mind seemed miles away. Probably imagining possibilities that flitted through Sam’s own as well, but Sam needed to scrub them from his mind. Cas wasn't dead. Cas always came back. They would make sure it stayed that way, because it had to.

Besides Cas upsetting Jack wasn't too likely. The nephilim had brainwashed their friend from the womb, to the point he had chosen the nephilim over them, knocked them out to escape with Kelly and hiding out here. This was like when Naomi had control of Cas, or when the Purgatory souls had, but worse. None of those had been "family," as the nephilim had eagerly claimed their friend to be. 

Another thing to worry about, when the time came. But first things first. "We'll get them back, Dean. Both of them. Mom and Cas."

"Yeah. Whatever." Dean snapped out of it and started marching off. "Go on, waste your time all you want. I'm going to do something useful and take care of the mess in the house."

And Dean kicked the sand, grumbling, "Dammit, Cas," under his breath as stalked off. Sam thought he should help him lay Kelly to rest, an innocent in all this that shouldn't be forgotten. But right now Dean needed his space. 

It was always one thing after another, wasn’t it? 

How many losses before Dean would break?

Sam had had no idea what to do or say, when he had left the house after Jack had disappeared the first time. He just knew he had to make sure his brother was safe and find something, say something to get him moving again. Because they had to keep moving. If they stopped . . . 

Sam knelt down and stared at the cooling glass, no longer comfortable using the stained blade on it. He'd wait until Dean had gone inside, then he'd get a better tool from the cache in the trunk--and he'd hide the blade from Dean's sight and obsession. Otherwise it would turn into another trench coat situation. 

When they got home, he’d leave Dean to his room and music, his tic and his binge. Soon enough he’d emerge, ready to throw himself into a case if no better distraction came up. That would give Sam time to for some private research in Enochian magic. Because there had to be some way to control the nephilim, and the most powerful magic was their best bet. They had to get back Mom. They had to kill the Devil. And they had no choice now but to do it alone.


	10. Angel Unknown

When Cassiel woke up, the pain was his own. Mostly. An angel was never quite unaware of a charge, although his own past experience comprised patients who needed special attention. In that case, the charge came first. An angel protected his charge with his life. Guardians never harmed their charges. Promotion of the bond in turn promoted success. And so on, including, Failure was punished.

Cassiel might have been asleep for millennia, long enough for a series of planets to be set into motion, but Father hadn't forgotten him. The old rules held for this new species.

If only he had been gifted knowledge of them and their world as well. 

Emotional pain threatened to swallow humans up, in ways Cassiel felt currently unfit to meet. But his two humans were not the only ones suffering in that way: something hovered near, breathing like them, worrying like them, hungering for contact like them. So Cassiel prized open his senses, flinching through their soreness and wounds, letting them drink their fill and sort the data. 

The second he did so, however . . . 

"You're awake, Cassiel."

Cassiel opened his vessel's eyes at the impatient tone. Sometimes he instinctually used the vessel as if it had always been an extension of him; other times he forgot, like now. Those eyes gave him a different view than his feathers of his surroundings, but they matched what he had glimpsed before. 

"We are inside the building I woke outside of. But my human charges have not been present for . . . " Cassiel cocked a few feathers and his vessel's head in calculation. "Three hours and seventeen minutes and five seconds of this Earth's time." 

The speaker, who appeared not quite an adult, not quite a child, was seated on the edge of the bed. He nodded eagerly, his two wings restlessly twitching to mirror the emotion. "You're more perceptive than the other. The extra wings help."

"I am built like an archangel, though I do not have their function. Someone died in this bed." Death and emotional pain layered this room like covers did the furniture beneath his back. The winged creature in a young human-like form quivered all over at the words. So Cassiel's feathers added a soft soothing song as he spoke with his vessel's mouth, "You are not an angel. You are nephilim. You were hers."

The song was lost beneath the youth's excitement as he scooted closer. As he touched Cassiel's arm.

"Yes, now you're mine--and I'm, I'm yours, Stepfather."

Memory scrawled across every surface of this room. Even with only two wings, the nephilim couldn't help but read it, so strong it came through. Someone in Cassiel's current vessel tended to and comforted the dying, pregnant woman. They shared a common purpose. It bound them as sure as any in a protector-protected relationship. They three--the unborn, the mother, and the guardian--believed in a world free of pain and full of peace. 

But when Cassiel reached to discover the identity of that angel the nephilim had confused him with, Cassiel came up blank.

He instinctually knew every angel.

This one he did not, could not.

It slipped from beneath his feathers, cutting like angel blades the harder he tried to grasp it.

Cassiel sat up, panting. "What angel possessed this vessel before, and why do I not know him?"

The nephilim, named Jack, cocked his head. "He was you. You are more now."

That made no sense. Angels did not change their nature, their calling, their very grace, their name. Confusion abounded; some of it must be relieved, or he could never perform his function. "Why am I here now, Jack?"

Jack's wings hefted, shoulders thrust back, chin up as pleasure and purpose suffused his entire being. "You are my stepfather. You will help me heal this world and everyone on it." He reached out with both hands and squeezed Cassiel's nearest. "Together, we will rule Paradise. _That_ is your purpose, and nothing else."


	11. A Lesson in Bonds

With the pronouncement of his world vision, the nephilim was transformed. Doubt and fear and emotional pain--grief, Cassiel recognized--had clouded and controlled him. Now he glowed with the purity of his purpose, and his wings unfurled and arched above his back, making him look not unlike a full angel. But the broad smile made him look like man.

It was a moving sight, but Cassiel did not share his vision, his belief. How could he when he knew so little about this world? How could he when others already had a claim on his attentions? 

"A laudable goal, Jack."

Smile dimmed. Wingtips drooped. Focus scattered beneath the creep of doubt and fear. "Oh, no. No, you must see it, Cassiel." The nephilim rose and started pacing beside the bed. "I know you see it. I saw it soon after I was conceived. This world is in pain, and I have the power to save it. But I need help." He turned to Cassiel, wings twitching with fervor. "I need your help. So I chose you."

"A laudable goal," Cassiel repeated, more firmly, while rippling feathers at him in a calming song. "But I do not believe you that is our relationship. You had better choose another." He rose from the bed, using his arms and an unengaged wing. "I already have two charges, and I neglect their needs as it is." 

"No."

Cassiel cocked his head. "No?"

"I won't let you." Jack stepped nearer, clenching his hands, wings frazzled. "You are mine. I chose you. Besides, we can save them as we save the world. They can't be so special you need to keep going to them. You don't even know them, Stepfather."

The young rarely did what they were told to do. Although Cassiel might be young to this world and wakefulness, he was far from inexperienced. But it was the onus of the elder to guide the younger, and so it must be even when they weren't angelic. The selected calming song was not working, so he tried one with an undertone of understanding and assurance. Then he spoke in a similar tone with his vessel's voice: 

"Jack. You are mistaken. I have been with them only once. And to my shame, I fled them because of my own weakness. I let myself become overwhelmed.” _My superior, whomever set this bond upon us, must be ashamed and disappointed. No more so than myself._ “I must rectify--"

"They are not yours."

Perhaps Cassiel had been too firm. His first speech had been with the human tongue, directed to his primary charge. That had come instinctively, but the niceties of that structure escaped him still.

Not to mention, it was a limited organ compared to subtleties of hundreds of feathers.

Cassiel tried again. "They are my charges--" And Cassiel cut the song and planned explanation short as he realized his mistake. 

Instead, he bowed his form and wings, sweeping the largest two forward before him, pointing at them at Jack. 

Muscles uncorded in Jack’s wing and limb, and he cocked his head. 

Well, it could have been a little more graceful. And elegant. But one worked with what one had. The gesture had not been without twinges of pain, which grew as he held the gesture.

However, he suspected the confusion came not from botched manners but ignorance.

"I am greeting you. Return the gesture and thread your wingtips through mine."

The youth's mouth rounded in an "oh." His wings twitched, almost knocking Cassiel's aside.

Short winged, but deceptively strong.

Interesting.

"Now state your name, aloud and through your grace. Like so." And Cassiel’s feathers sang his name, in the way only he could, as he pronounced his identity. "I am Cassiel. No, don't force it. It will come naturally." 

It came out. A little loud, a little awkward, too strong in parts, uncertain in others, but a sound first attempt. "I am Jack."

Cassiel nodded. "Now remember the elder or senior in rank always initiates the greeting. For their time is more precious, and they may not wish to expend it on acquaintanceship outside their squadrons and garrisons. The depth of the relationship, the sharing, is also dependent upon the senior's will. For example . . . " Cassiel turned a few feathers and exposed something precious.

The bond between him and his charges. 

It glowed not unlike the youth had earlier, but in patches, in special feathers meant just for the protected and only them. A bond was always a sight to behold. Inspiring. Beautiful. Unique. Despite Cassiel's damaged state, the nephilim couldn't help but be awed--

Enraged. Full of fury, Jack tried to rip those feathers out. 

Instead, Jack's wings and powers ricocheted off, intended pain rebounding upon the perpetrator. Jack flopped onto his rear, wings splayed out behind him, agape. 

"What was that?"

"Punishment. Only myself, my charges, or an archangel can remove the bond without repercussions." Cassiel folded back his wings, rubbing them against each other to self-soothe and ease the aches. He sighed. "Your nature and instincts are destructive. Are you sure you are not meant for warriorhood? Who assigned you your role? One of my charges rebelled insistently against his purpose. In the end, for his health, I convinced Father to alter it slight--"

"NO."

The youth surged to his feet.

Cassiel cocked his head. Strummed a disappointed note. Jack's wings and head hung in shame. 

"So you can hear my songs. I worried I had been rendered mute for all the impact they have had on you, young one."

"Sorry. They are very, uhm, nice." Jack fidgeted in place before exploding forward and grasping Cassiel's hands. "But this is important. If you saw more of humanity than those two, you'd see. You'd see. I can help you see, if you’d just let me help you. Please let me help you, Stepfather."

 _See others than my charges? Interesting proposition. Thorough knowledge of the species would help me tend to them better,_ Cassiel thought. _Though I do not like it, I can delay direct aid, for they will benefit from my improved abilities. For obviously,_ he thought, as he regarded the youth with his bouncing wings and bouncing heels. _For obviously, I am currently deficient._ "Very well. Show me more of this world. Show me more humans."


	12. Duty of the Elder

Jack was proud of his success. He had spent hours learning how to control his powers so he could touch Stepfather without harming him. He was less proud of the progress of their relationship. But at least, now, Cassiel was at his side. Where he belonged.

That didn't mean, however, there was no cause for embarrassment. Cassiel caught onto it quickly enough. "What is wrong, Jack?"

Jack looked away from him, stalking to the door, turning his back to his Stepfather. Not that it would hide his shame. "I don't--I don't know how to fly." He used his feather-senses to track Cassiel's response.

It was a held tilt.

Analysis.

Then a verdict. "I am not sure you can. Your wings are--"

Jack rounded on him, just barely keeping from burning something. "I'm not stunted. I'm not an ostrich."

Cassiel didn't even flinch. Instead, he plucked the imagery from his mind, including the favored one's accusation. Bristling, Jack didn't think anyone would mind if he wiped that animal from Paradise's existence.

"Interesting creature. But that is its purpose, to run on the earth. Do you see its legs?" He sent back the image, lending it elegance of motion completely absent from Dean’s earlier thoughts. "Do you see its speed? You are not meant to fly; you were made to walk the Earth." 

Well, since Stepfather liked this bird, Jack would spare it after all.

He’d never be able to fly then. But Jack knew what the next best thing would be. "You can fly. You can take me with you."

Cassiel smiled a little. Spread his wings. Winced. "Not currently."

Oh. All lingering anger and disappointment faded as Jack realized his mistake. "I didn't--sorry, Stepfather, I should have thought. You need to heal."

"Charges come first. But I do not neglect myself." He fanned the smallest feathers edging one of the smallest wings. From them, little threads of grace branched out like veins to the surrounding areas. "On each wing, some are dedicated to my healing."

Jack approached slowly. Carefully he reached out, brushing the precious feathers with fingertips. The veins of grace were unlike the rest--calming, cooling, and analgesic. And powerful. A single feather, once burned to a spike, began to fill in. Jack traced the edges of the growth, one thread of grace at a time. When it was restored, Jack rocked back on his heels, flexing his fingers. “That was awesome. You are awesome, Stepfather.“ 

Given time, all his feathers would be like that.

"You should dedicate more to that task." It took but seconds to mentally trace Cassiel's methods. "Maybe I can--" Using his wing tip, he pressed a feather to another such stump, and willed it to heal. 

Magic flowed. 

Steps were followed exactly. 

But his labor bore no fruit. 

He tried harder.

Cassiel gasped as the grace surged through the feathers. But not even that did any good. It didn’t even empower Stepfather to heal more. 

Failure. He was a failure. "I can't." Jack stepped back, and feeling and smelling the warning sizzle of heat escaping his hands and feet, he turned and punched through the wall. 

Flames licked out the hole.

Until Cassiel put it out with flick of a wing. 

"Healers are patient." A hand fell on his shoulder. "Do not force it. It will come in time." 

Jack sagged, covering up the evidence of his failure with his hand. But the hole was too big. He couldn't hide it, and he didn't know how to undo it. Worthless. "It won't come to me unless you teach me."

"It is the duty of the elders to educate the young." Feather senses told him Cassiel had cocked his head. "In this case, however, the inferior must help his superior. How do we go to humans? Do humans normally walk?" 

Jack looked over his shoulder. "They have vehicles. You have a truck."


	13. A Lesson in Healing

The favored one and his brother made their transports seem so easy to use, but while Stepfather and himself could dissect the details that went into it, down to the composition of the metals, and even piece together memories of actions previous owners had taken, neither felt comfortable using it. 

“I think,” Cassiel said as he returned a device of music to a compartment, "I think we can walk."

Jack rose from his crouch beside a tire and agreed with relief. "Yes, we can. Or better, we can run. Race you." With a grin and without warning, he took off.

Though not as swift of foot, Cassiel followed after. 

They raced through fields, down streets, even darting intangibly through buildings. Until Cassiel signaled for him to stop.

"Refreshing, young one,” Cassiel panted as he caught up. “But we must not forget our purpose." He looked around, with vessel and wing senses, taking in the shorn grass, the swings and playsets, the laughing and running and tumbling children, and their watchful parents. "Good, you have led us among many humans of a variety of ages. This is a training ground for their offspring. A park."

Jack had forgotten the humans in the rush, and he wanted to forget them a while longer. He wanted to run more. It must be what flying felt like. The closest he'd ever get under his own power. The thought crushed his good mood and desires, but he was buoyed again by the fact that he'd soon learn a lesson. A lesson that would lead him closer to Paradise. 

Jack trotted to Cassiel's side and studied every movement and use of Cassiel's wings. After seconds, Jack mirrored that on his own two, smiling in anticipation of their successes.

* * * 

An hour later, Stepfather had forgotten him, and Jack was bored. "Let's heal one," he said, tugging on Cassiel's wing tip. Once he had reclaimed a third of Cassiel’s notice, he pointed at a human. "That one on the bench. Her hands look painful. Twisted." _Not unlike your wings._ Although burns were not the cause of her infirmity.

Stepfather’s feather senses redirected course and studied the woman of middle years. She was watching something on an electronic device, with tendrils snaking up into her ears, sharing its noise. 

_“Miss Elizabeth. I have struggled in vain and I can bear it no longer. These past months have been a torment. I came to Rosings with the single object of seeing you... I had to see you. I have fought against my better judgment, my family's expectations, the inferiority of your birth, my rank and circumstance. All these things I am willing to put aside and ask you to end my agony.”_

She sniffed and thought, _This is my favorite part. How can you turn down that face? Although, Firth was_ The _Darcy._

As Jack watched, Cassiel shook himself free of that distraction. “Yes, a good subject for a lesson in healing. Her hands are . . . arthritic and hinder her daily functions. She wishes she could hold in her hands the book that sad story matches. She doesn’t like to read on that device." Cassiel started in her direction, dropping the veil of intangibility. "It's not the same as paper."

Jack paced him.

The woman startled. Her mind raced, blood pounding, as she clutched at her heart, wincing at the pain the automatic gesture cost her. "Oh, my, I didn't see you there. You came out of nowhere." She chuckled nervously, staring at Cassiel, wondering, _Why is he coming over here?_

"That is because I was intangible." Over his shoulder, without looking away from their subject, "Unless it is an emergency, never intrude even if it is to your patient's benefit. Ask permission." A flick of a few feathers indicated he wanted Jack to take the lead on that.

Jack nodded and emerged into her view. "Human woman, we noticed your hands are damaged. We would like to make them well."

The woman did not respond with gratitude and willingness. Instead, she stared. Angrily. She reached into her purse, despite the pain, and came up with a small canister. "You sick man. Get away from me." She stood and sprayed Jack in the face and then clubbed him in the head afterwards with her possession and ran away.

The spray was meant to burn and blind his eyes.

The purse was meant to send him to his feet.

It was an assault. An insult.

Cassiel cocked his head, watching her progress across the grass. "I believe she is opposed to your lack of dress." He looked about at the other humans who were starting to take notice. "You do stand contrary to conventi--"

Jack had forgotten about clothes. His time had been spent hiding and then controlling his grace so it wouldn’t hurt Stepfather. 

Some of their audience were upset, pulling away children. Others laughed and pointed devices at him, and his image splashed across their screens. His naked image. 

The favored one would be laughing. Saying something insulting. 

Just as this woman had done. 

No.

No.

No! 

One second, the woman was darting away, looking over shoulder to see if they were following, her mind racing over her future actions— _grab keys, start car, drive away._ A couple seconds later, her thoughts were white with agony no one could relieve. 

She screamed as she went up in pillar of flame, like Dagon under Stepfather's fist and Jack’s assist. 

Then she was but ash dusting the air.

Satisfaction was absolute, same as then. The insult was gone.

Cassiel brushed roughly past him, every feather trembling with jagged emotion. He knelt beside a trace of ash.

 _Oh. No. Stepfather._

"I didn't--I didn't--please, I didn't mean--it was an accident." Ignoring the excited, fearful murmurs of their unwanted audience, the devices calling for help or recording their presence, he grasped Cassiel's arm. Then flinched back as the sleeve smoldered, blackening. "Please don't leave me, Stepfather. I'm sorry. I’m so sorry."

Jack was ignored for the ash. Cassiel pressed the splayed fingertips of one hand against it, arranging two wings likewise against it, others dancing above his head. They released a song that throbbed in Jack’s ears with its sonorous power. 

The result was a spark. A single speck of ash sparking.

It doubled. 

Trebled.

Then exploded exponentially.

With it came, a memory of her life, flowing over Cassiel's feathers. The loss of her job where they sewed checkbook covers. The rejection of her boyfriend because she was depressed. Taking time to “smell the roses” in the park. There, finding another, a better mate. As a child, playing house by herself while her mother rubbed yet another “cure” into her hands. Crying over the smells as she tried one her own.

Small sparks like these exploded exponentially. 

An outline of her form traced in the air, like veins of grace.

Then flesh and bone flowed around it, faster and faster, until she with a pop, she came back into existence.

Cassiel had rebuilt her life from ash.

"That was beautiful, Stepfather. I have never seen--"

The woman who lay collapsed on the ground panted up at them. Her mind raw with panic and shock. Stepfather ignored Jack as he apologized to her:

"I am sorry, Isabel Reynolds. This was a mistake." 

Before she could blink, Cassiel took himself and Jack beyond her senses. 

Then Cassiel turned and looked at him at last. Harshly. Feathers stood on end, hard as metal, sharp enough to cut. Thoughts turned to punishment, among them locking him away.

Jack knelt, cringing in body and wing. "Please."

A few feathers softened. Then a few more, and a plaintive note played as he looked away. "It is as much my fault as yours, young one. How can you exercise patience, if I do not model it myself? We will return to your nest and work on control for the rest of the day."

Cassiel then marched off, leaving Jack to follow.

This time Jack was not so eager to catch up. Too many feathers were still sharp. Cassiel was not pleased with him.

Because of his mistake.

The woman stared, unblinking, at the place where Cassiel and himself had last stood according to her confused and fragmented recollection. Her hand clutched over her heart. 

It took a moment for her to realize there was no pain.

Cassiel had cured her arthritis when he had restored her life. 

She blinked. Tears filled her eyes as she squeezed her hand over and over again.

So _that_ was healing.

That, Jack would like to do someday.

_Next time._

"Coming, young one?"

Jack startled and shook himself and his feathers free from distraction. In a couple of bounds, he was once more at Cassiel’s side. "Oh, yes, Stepfather. Thank you." 

"You have much to learn about control before you can interact with another human--or make strides toward your vision."

“But you will help me? Right, Stepfather?”

Cassiel sighed. “Someone must.”

Jack lunged and enveloped him in a hug, using arms and wings. “Thank you. Thank you.” 

After a hesitation, Cassiel curled a wing around him briefly. It patted it along his back before lifting away. “Come now. You will learn. All will be well.”

“Yes.” Jack kept a hold of him as they turned toward home. "It will now."


	14. An Expert's Opinion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be about halfway done with this tale.

Sam futzed with the bedspread beneath him and worried about Dean. When Sam had left, Dean had been sleeping off a binge of nephilim-research fueled by drink. It was noon, and he was unlikely to stir till the afternoon . . . with any luck. 

But Sam couldn't do anything about that, not directly. Indirectly . . . 

To distract himself, he reviewed all the weapon cached in the hotel room. Angel blade under the pillow, gun in the drawer . . . By the time he got to the switchblade in his shoe, he started over again. Every time a footstep fell outside the hotel door, he paused, waited, and then resumed the inventory as the person moved on. He was wondering if he should move the second set of Enochian handcuffs onto his person, when footsteps paused outside his door.

Several fears hit Sam at once, so he readied an excuse if it were Dean and readied an angel blade if it were the nephilim or anything else.

But it was only Lily Sunder.

At last.

"You're late."

She cocked her head at him, staring at him with her good eye.

_Was I like that when I was soulless? I can't tell what she is thinking._

His fingers loosed the angel blade as he apologized. "Sorry." He scrubbed his face. "It's been a long four days. Do you have it?"

From her bag, she pulled out a few sheets of paper. She did not move closer.

She just stood as still as, well, as still as an angel really.

Sam rose. Mentally he catalogued the weapons as he neared her. Just in case. As his hand closed on the papers, she spoke at last:

"Are you sure you want to do this, Sam? Enochian magic of this kind eats at your soul." 

Ah, so this was concern. He relaxed a smidge and drew the promised spells from her hand.

"I can stand to lose a little."

She looked away with a grimace and wiped her hand on her dress trousers as if they were dirty. "You will lose a lot, and I'm not certain it will work. Akobel and Ishim talked very little of nephilim to me." Her mouth twisted in a snarl. The strongest emotion she had shown yet. "Angels usually just kill them."

"Sorry." Sam grimaced back at her. If it were anyone else, he might have tried to squeeze a shoulder to console her. 

She'd probably stab him if he tried. After all that happened, he was no longer sure she considered him and his brother human enough to avoid hurting. Tainted by connection to those who ruined her life. 

In the end, Sam did add, "I know it must have been hard on you, but I wouldn't have asked if I weren't desperate." Then he moved back to the bed, glancing over the spell. 

She said nothing.

She didn’t move an inch.

Sam's knee jostled up and down with nerves before he stilled it. "Do you want a seat?"

"I want to leave. Ask your questions."

"All right. The angel feather--why is flight feather important?"

She smiled slightly again. "Because their wings are more than the means of transport. They are senses; they are magic; they are communication. The flight wings are the strongest of all. Do you know what one of those feathers looks like?"

Sam dragged his bag closer. Inside were several Cas had given them, some from both MOL’s hoards, and some discards gathered over the years of interactions. White, stained, large, small, intact, damaged—they ranged an entire spectrum. He fanned them all in his hand. "One of these?"

Lily sighed and approached at last. "The third will do. What about the ash of a willow?" Sam pulled out a vial. "Cut with silver _and_ burned under a blue moon? No? Good thing I have spare. Angels are precise, and so is their magic. You may want to take notes."

So Sam pulled out his laptop and did just that. 

Before she was done, though, he had: “One last question, Lily.”

She sighed and looked away toward the door.

“Did, uhm, did Akobel or Isham mention anything about an angel named Cassiel?”

She turned sharply back to him, eyebrows arching. “Who told you that name?”

“It just came up, uh, in passing.” 

“Castiel? You overheard it from him? Why are you asking me? Do you no longer trust him."

Sam wondered if angel blades and vengeance was dancing through her mind at that thought. So much for forgiveness. Maybe she doesn't have enough soul left for that.

"No. Not at all. He's, just, preoccupied at the moment."

"Cagey, you mean." She nodded. "So was Akobel and Ishim. You had better hope your companion’s blue devils come from his nature rather than anything stronger. The Lost One died before the Earth was made. His restoration prophesies doom.”

Sam sat back, a smile pulling at his lips. “Apocalypses are in the Winchester wheelhouse apparently. We can handle another one.”

“Not _your wheelhouse,_ Sam. It’s not the human apocalypse Cassiel portends, but theirs.” Her fists clenched. “The angels'.”


	15. Balancing Responsibilities

On one wing, the nephilim was progressing rapidly under one-on-one training. Where he loved, his powers were immeasurable and his control strong. 

Cassiel flexed two healed wings as the youth released them. 

Jack grabbed the last set, his eagerness to please and succeed vibrating through his touch. "Should I try the flight ones now?"

On the other wing, outside of those Jack felt close to, namely Cassiel himself . . . 

Cassiel opened his eyes and from where he sat, cross-legged, took in the wall before him. At one point, it had borne the name of the one crouching behind; festive colors by human standards. Painted in love. Now it was fire-blackened and riddled with holes. 

Like the rest of the house.

Cassiel considered his responsibilities as Jack drew his fingers through the flight wings, grooming them. Something he had picked up on right away, and was always eager to initiate. But no amount of rapport building and soothing eased Cassiel's disquiet. Now that three of four sets had been restored, the need of his charges pressed on him ever the more.

It crinkled and cramped his feathers in warning. Whispering, _Now, now, now._

Eventually, it would become a roar.

It was always worse when the primary one prayed. And he prayed often. His need for his protector invaded even his rest periods, his dreams.

Grooming pleasures turned to warm sharpness. Healing powers readying, reaching out. Cassiel drew his largest wings away. "Not at the moment, Jack. I have other responsibilities."

Jack sat back on the floorboards, fingers clenched against the black jeans he wore. He liked black. "Them."

Cassiel regarded the remains of the wall again. Jack liked black a little too much. _Like his father. They both loved to burn._

"Yes. My charges." Cassiel turned a little, regarding his pupil over his shoulder. "One does not grow without being tested, Jack. You need to learn to share that which you love if you want your Paradise to succeed."

"You are going to them."

Every feather, every muscle, every thought indicated displeasure and refusal. Not in a sharing mood then. _Very like his father._

"Not precisely, Jack." _Do I act too hastily?_ The memories of the last time he had made that mistake weighed heavily on his feathers. The woman's needless death. _But the idea is worth the attempt. I can postpone my duties no longer._ "I can tend some of their needs at a distance. Would you like to learn how for when you have a charge?"

A little uncoiling. A little opening of the mind and feathers and fists. "I will have a charge?" Jack's wings perked up. "Who? What do I have to do?"

"First things first, remember?" Cassiel turned away and closed his eyes. "Observe."


	16. Dream Talk

In his dreams, Sam and Mom were starting the barbecue, while Cas and him fished out of lawn chairs and nursed beers. Nothing was biting but the mosquitos, but that was all right. They had all the time in the world and a cooler full of burgers for dinner.

Dean was explaining to Cas how you never jerked the line on the first nibble. "They're just getting a taste. You got to let them sink their teeth in."

Cas nodded and said something.

But that was drowned out by his twin's voice from behind him. "Is that Castiel?"

"Cas?" 

Dean half turned, gaze darting between the two, before everything faded, muted, to just them standing there, facing each other. "Cas. What did I tell you about making pit stops in my head."

But he smiled to take the bite out of his words and hugged the shit out of his best friend.

Cas did not hug him back.

"You call us both that. We are not the same angel. One of us doesn't exist." 

_Not this again._ “Is that what Satan’s lovechild is telling you? You should really consider the source.” Speaking of sources . . . Dean pulled back, scowling, making sure no one would pull a Glenn Close on them unexpectedly. They looked good. For now. "Did Dumbo run out of rabbits to boil?" 

Then he winced at his own callousness over the woman's death and resurrection. But it had just been one of those weeks, and the week wasn't over yet. At least, he thought, looking over Cas again, it was shaping up. 

"You're lucky people believe in little grey men more than they do miracles. So I owe Sam a 20. You got a power up? Does that mean Dad's done sipping pina coladas with Auntie Amara? Team Free Will back together again, stronger than ever?"

Cas blinked. "I do not understand any of your references."

Dean's heart swelled. Laughing, he clapped his friend on the shoulders. "I'm glad you're back, man. Don't ever change." 

"No, I am not ‘back’ as you mean. You conflate me with Castiel, whom I have no record of and thus must have never existed. I am Cassiel. Perhaps if I displayed?"

 _What?_ "What?"

Lightning cracked, the colors of the dream space deepened, and tattered wings unfurled behind Cas's back.

"I've seen that before." Though he'd never admit, he didn't mind seeing them again. They were magnificent, even in this state. They never failed to give him a thrill. 

Cas smiled a little and bowed. Even his wings dipped. Which was awesome, too. "Thank you for the compliment. Your soul is equally awesome and thrilling."

 _Dammit, Cas._ Dean thumped his friend on the chest. "I told you, reading people’s thoughts is rude."

That earned Dean a head cock that made his heart thump from the familiarity. _He’s still in there._

"Is it rude to breathe?" Cas asked.

"What?"

"Reading minds and emotions, especially those of my charges, is essential and instinctive to me as the act of drawing air into your lungs is to you." 

_Allllll right._ So this was like bee-herder Cas and or fresh-from-the-pond Emmanuel. He could deal. They would deal. Dean squared his shoulders. As long as it was Cas.

"Ah, yes. I see my error. Your perception is limited. Allow me to try again."

The light flared up, and Dean flinched back shielding his eyes, until a hand touched his arm and lowered it. 

Everything was still too bright, but bite had been taken out of it. As if someone had slapped a pair invisible shades on his head.

"Observe now, Dean."

If the wings were amazing before, then Dean had been abusing the word. They looked one of those kid's nightlight toys that he got Sam as gag gift his last birthday. But instead of splattering light shapes, there cast shadows of feathers, constantly shifting, everywhere. Some deformed, but most were whole.

They felt nothing like feathers. They were soft and tingly and felt like sunshine but solid. They danced across his skin, making the long-healed brand prickle beneath his skin. 

Then something else struck Dean as odd. Well, odder. 

"Exactly how many wings do you have?"

The wings slipped apart, and Dean laughed and grabbed them, counting one, two, three, four on this side. "Eight? Someone's flashy."

"Thank you. I am glad this makes you happy, although your body remains distressed. I can heal that from here if you like. I do not have to be present with your person to assist you."

 _From here. Not present in person. Right._ Dean stepped back, reluctantly releasing his fistfuls of wings. He had sunk in wrist deep, and the feathers clung as he retreated. "What I'd like is to squeegee the kid out of your brain and for you to come home." _To your family. Where you belong._

"Home?" Cas cocked his head. "To your nest, yes. The bunker you share with your brother. I will visit as soon as I can, but--"

Visit. Not stay. "But the lovechild comes first."

"No. You do." The feathers brushed his left arm.

The sarcastic reply was lost as his jaw snapped shut in electric shock. 

Dean arched, gasping, clutching wings and trench coat as _something_ surged through his body. Hands steadied him.

Good thing, for the world was tilting crazily.

"Dean, you and your brother are my charges. But as an instructor, I have responsible for the nephilim as well."

It took a moment, but Dean processed that.

It took another moment to reply.

"You don't owe the kid shit." That would have come out stronger if Cas hadn't made his voice reach choir boy heights. 

The feathers slid from his arm. 

Dean made a strangled noise, and though the world was no longer swirling and cockeyed, he couldn't quite uncurl his fists or drop back onto his heels yet. Like pissing on an electric fence after a good smoke, but without the pain.

What the hell was that?

What the hell was Cas doing now?

The wings combed over his skin, tickling along fingers, neck, arms, legs, chest, even head. They made his head buzz. The brand too. Finally, Dean had regained enough control over his body that he could bat the distraction aside. "Stop that. What are you, the tickle monster?"

"You are saddening and mostly unresponsive to my ministrations via this communication." Cas nodded, looking past him. Feather imprints retracted, shifting to arch above and behind his back, a long ways above and behind his back. His hands still rested on Dean’s elbow and waist. "I will vis--"

In less than a blink of the eye, Cas was gone. Taking all the colors and depth of the dream space with him.

Dean staggered. 

Probably didn't want to fall here.

He caught himself. 

"Cas?" Dean whirled around. "Cas!"

But he was alone.


	17. Unexpected Company

Jack did not like the focus of Stepfather's attentions, the insults and insinuations, or the way the favored one presumed to groom Stepfather’s wings. That was _his_ duty. Hadn't he followed the proper etiquette? The lesser offers, the greater accepts, and afterward the gesture was returned.

But this. This was like a bird being groomed by a presuming flea. Jack’s own wings cringed. _How can he stand it?_

Jack was so involved with watching every detail, storing up every insult and shaping rebuttals, and plotting revenge, that he didn't notice he was no longer alone until he smelled the angel blades. 

Jack turned in place behind Stepfather, taking all of the intruders in. 

"Who are you?"

The troop of seven angels displayed their wings and brandished their blades. They were surrounded.

Jack licked his lips. He did not think they came to introduce themselves. With one hand, he reached out and clasped Stepfather's shoulder, snatching him back from the dream space.

“--you when you wake.” Cassiel gasped, turned, feathers fluffing in irritation. "Jack, I said to obs--"

He cut himself short as he took in his company. 

"I should have known you would be holed up with the abomination," the leader said. Or she said? The angel had taken on a teenage female whose neck held fake flower tattoos and whose tastes ran toward Black Widow and Hawkeye t-shirts. Jack was unsure of gender assignation in this instance, but _was_ sure of the vitriol spat at Cassiel and evident in the accusing flick of the blade. "You always side against heaven. But I never expected you to degrade yourself this way."

"Stepfather?" Jack whispered.

Cassiel cocked his head. Gestured with a wingtip for Jack to remain in place as he rose. "I’ll excuse your rudeness, for you have mistaken us for someone else." He greeted them.

They blinked and drew closer and looked, really looked with all their worn, damaged senses.

Beneath their gaze, Cassiel parted his wings. Not unlike he had done for the favored one.

"Cassiel?"


	18. Turning Point

Dean woke with a gasp. "Cas." He released the bed clothes he had bunched up and with a curse, untangled himself. The book _Offspring of Monsters_ slid off, shedding a few pages as it bounced. Dean snatched the angel blade out from beneath his pillow and jumped out of bed. “Sam!” It came out more as a croak, his voice hoarse and dry. He slammed the door behind him. "Sam!”

He was not in the hall.

His room.

Cas’s.

The map-room. 

At the kitchen table.

The dungeon.

In the garage.

But all the warding they had put in place, their best bet to stop the nephilim, had remained intact. That Dean had noticed during his panic. He also noticed Baby was missing. So. Sam was just out.

Dean retraced his path to kitchen and opened the fridge. Stuck to the last bottle was a post-it note saying simply. “Burger and beer run. Back soon.”

So that was that. He was okay. Dean took a breath, throat raw, still sensitive from whatever had run through him in the dream. He reached for the beer when saw a second note pinned to a his brother’s lemon water—“You can try this if you run out.”-- and snorted. He hooked the beer and took it back to the work room. Half a beer in a go settled his nerves, stilling twanging from the panic. It was enough that he could set down the blade, and his gaze traced his and Sam’s artistic endeavor carved into the table. Before this was over, they'd have to add another name, and he anticipated Cas’s stare and gruff question of “Why would I desecrate this wood with my name?” or “My name is too large for this puny surface; it is as big as the Chrysler building” or something like that. Dean chuckled and picked up one of the books lying upside down, keeping its place. 

_Hierarchy of Heaven._

It was opened near the end, on a "Miscellany" chapter.

Among others, there was the name Cassiel. "Presumed deceased," he said aloud. "Primary Healer of--."

The door of the bunker groaned opened. 

Dean dropped the book and snatched up the weapon, ready. “Sam?" He turned. "Cas?"


	19. Heaven's Might

Weapon hands sagged. Wings arched and twitched and strained toward the angel at their center. _"Cassiel. Cassiel. Cassiel.”_ They whispered his name over and over, with lips and feathers, trading it far beyond them, connecting with those still far way in heaven.

 _Interesting,_ Jack thought. _It is not unlike the bond Stepfather has with Them._

_I wonder how similar it is . . ._

Soon a different emotion tinged their excitement. Something dreadful. Doubt. Fear. Jack rose.

"Tadeas--" The one in the elderly man with the long beard gave voice to it, his feathers reflecting imagery evenly divided between Cassiel and the leader. "If that is Cassiel, the lost one--"

Tadeas held up her red-and-black-nailed hand. "It does not sway us from our purpose."

"But you know what it means when he returns."

Jack was curious. "What does it mean?"

Most feathers shifted back to him. A sheen reflecting his image broke over hundreds of feathers before they resolved into more solid patches. 

Most of those showed him in agony.

Or a smear upon the ground.

Cassiel stepped closer. "I do not like the train of your thought. He is not an abomination. He is my student."

The images rippled again.

"Stand firm, brothers." Tadeas minced her tattered wings with regret at Cassiel. "Stay out of this, beloved brother of old. You have been mistaken before. After all, you tried to heal the Darkness, so the legends say."

"And I was not wrong."

She shook her head. "Yachel, Eamon, restrain him. It is for your own good, beloved."

“Do not touch him.” Jack bristled, wings sharpening in battle readiness. The one in the old man and another in a white suit closed on Cassiel, but before Jack could react, magic crackled and struck between him and his goal. it ripped up floorboards as it went.

Jack stopped.

This version of Stepfather, being no warrior, fought against each who held his arm, but not with fervor or desire to hurt. He tried to speak, tied to sing placating and peace songs, but Tadeas would have none of it. They muffled his mouth and covered his feathers with their own. “Sorry,” they whispered. “It is better to not watch, brother. It will soon be over, and then we can rejoice over your return in heaven.” 

For some of us, yes, there would be rejoicing. But not for them. 

"Now for you, abomination.” Tadeas pointed her blade. It was not her own; it smelled of one far stronger. “You see before you the gathered might of heaven.” Her eyes flared blue as she brought her wings into the human plane, searing with power. One by one, the others followed suit. 

So the blade wasn't the only thing she had borrowed. 

Her grace was connected to the others. 

Even down to the lowest of the low, the two-winged cherubim, in heaven. 

Stepfather shook his head, but Jack looked away, taking in the damaged floor. Then those arrayed against him. He smirked as his fists began to heat up. “What took you so long?” He cocked his head. “After all, there are so few of you remaining to gather. Even with the cherubim, you do not number a hundred.” 

“It will be enough.“ 

Cassiel strained, and they covered his eyes.

 _Damn them._ “Do not presume to touch—“

As one, the five unengaged warriors stabbed him. Sinking the blades in to the hilt on every side.

The pain . . . 

The pain was laughable.

Jack stepped back looked down at himself. _Human pincushion,_ he thought--strangely enough in Dean's voice. The most powerful blade had pierced his heart. One his lung. “That's it?“ he coughed.

Then all of heaven’s might rained down on him.


	20. Alarm

Dean relaxed and dropped the blade. It clattered on the table. “Sam.” He stepped toward him and snapped, “Where you’ve been?” Even though he knew.

Dean just had needed him here.

Sam nodded at the beer. “I see you got my note.” Sam held up takeout bags and a six-pack with a shrug. "Got pie, too, if you want--"

"What kind?"

"Apple."

Dean snatched up the bags and dropped them on the table. He started pulling out the peace offering. Casually, he offered one of his own, “Guess what?”

Sam’s eyes flicked behind him to the book on the table. “Uhm, what?”

“We had a visitor.”

Sam perked up, looking around. “Cas?”

“Yes. In here." Dean tapped his skull with the plastic spoon. "Just like, you know, the old days.” His voice still carried an edge. "You know, back before he knew better?"

This time Sam purposefully did not look at the book. “He’s, uh, he's doing good?”

“Good enough.” Dean bit into the the forkful of pie and felt it down to his toes. “Mmm. You know what would go well with burgers? Fish.”

That earned him a scrunched up look of confusion. “What?”

“Nothing.” He swallowed his mouthful. Washed it down with the last of his beer. “He visited me in a dream."

"What did he say?"

"Not much. Kid zapped him away once he realized he had flown the coop." Dean plucked out a the rabbit food from the othr take out and slid it over with a grimace. "Hurry up with that. We need to redecorate the dungeon." He picked up the angel blade, studied it for a moment, and with a smirk, he spun it like top on the table. "I'm thinking Enochian."

And the face Sam made at him then. Three parts happiness, one part determination, one part “what are you talking about, I’m not taking too long in the shower. Go away.” Hmm. But before Dean could drag it out of him, something shot through him. Not pleasant at all. He gasped, clutching at the table and his arm in his confusion, nearly going down.

“Dean!” His brother grabbed him. “What--?”

“Cas. He’s hurting Cas.” And the lights flickered all around as the alarms began to blare.


	21. Parry

The light burned out. The house stopped shaking. There were holes in the roof, and gathered clouds began to part. Jack shook his head to dispel the ringing noise and to heal his burst ear drums and popped eyeballs and liquefied blood and split, burnt skin. 

But he left the blades in place. He had plans for them. 

He staggered to his feet. 

The enemies stared, shocked. Every feather locked on him. 

He laughed and wiped the blood from his lips. “Only my father's blade or my own can kill me.” He cocked his head. “Didn’t you know?”

“As I tried to warn you, your attack would fail,” Stepfather said, pulling his arms and wings free from slack grips. “This will end badly for you.” Then he turned, strumming a imploring, calming note. So deep was the latter it could almost put an angel or nephilim to sleep. If they weren’t already full of rage or mindless panic. “An object lesson for everyone. However, this is a moment to practice forgiveness, Jack.” 

“No, Stepfather, it's not.”

And Jack raised his arms and wings and channeled power through the blades and into every last enemy on heaven and on earth.


	22. Map Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I can't remember if the angel map still exists or not. And I have yet to watch the penultimate--who says, penultimate, anyway? ;-)--episode of the season to see if it was taken out of play then or earlier or not at all. But I wanted to use it. And I wanted it to be more sensitive than it was.

As soon as Dean could stand on his own two feet, Sam darted toward the map-room, trusting his brother to follow.

The map had flared to life, a cluster of light in one spot, before with a sudden _woomph_ sound it went dark. 

The ticking sounds of old machinery raced, almost faster than their parts can handle.

But the map looked dead.

Dean and him exchanged looks. “You think it's broken?” Before Sam can stop him, Dean thumped it with a fist. “Come on.” 

Then with a crackle and a smell of corrosion, it lit up. But with only one dot. In the same place as the cluster. 

“What does that mean?”

“I think it means we better hurry.” Dean pushed away from the table and raced for the door, shouting over his shoulder. “I'll get the summoning kit. You start on the room.”


	23. Silence

The room seared white.

Heaven screamed.

Heaven was silent.

And when it passed, Cassiel cried out, falling to his knees and hands, wings lifeless. He cried and cried, but there was no one to hear him. No one but . . . “What have you done, Jack?”


	24. Summoning

Dean had a moment between preparing the summoning and being handed the wrapped blade to take in the dungeon room. Cuffs, weapons of every sort, an archangel blade soaking in an old coffee can of something that definitely did not smell like coffee.

More like a rat drowned in coffee.

Then set on fire.

Dean tilted his head. _And the walls._

“Dean? Do you want me to . . . ?”

Dean shook his head and exposed the blade that had killed Cas. He carefully scraped the dried blood off into the bowl waiting on the table. Just as carefully, he looked away, at everything, anything, to keep the image of burning grace and seared wings from mind. “Love what you’ve done with the room, Sammy. Someone’s been busy.”

“Uh, yeah. I found a book before I took a break. We have to be prepared.” Sam stalked over to the waiting blade and pulled it out, staring at it as the dark green juice oozed off. Where it dripped, the floor sizzled . 

And Dean thought the smell couldn’t get worse. He gagged.

His brother, for once, had a steel stomach. For he only grimaced and shook his head.

“You plan on sticking him with that? What about Mom?”

Sam shrugged. “You saw the video. We don’t need him. We’ll find a way to her, and Cas will . . . Cas will revive her if she’s gone.”

“Good.” They were back on track. “Lucifer’s bastard dies.” 

Sam nodded and lowered the blade. “He dies.” 

_And Cas comes home._ Dean scooted away the blade, wishing he could just trash it. But it was Cas's. Once cleaned up, he might want it back. _Focus._ He tossed the wrapping over the blade--out of sight, out of mind--picked up the matchbox, and struck the match. 

Watching it flare to life, Dean grabbed his own blade, the one had left in the work room, now waiting on the table beside the bowl. Its edges were coated in something more black than green, the same something that made up some wards. The whole thing looked dull. He turned it in his hand. Felt heavier too. “Cool. Ready?”

Sam nodded. 

Dean dropped the match. The bowl burst into smoke and flame and a fragrance of lightning and honey and something unearthly he associated with his friend. 

“Castiel, I summon you . . . ” And then he slipped into Enochian-sprinkled Latin.

* * *

The chant was shorter than the one when Cas had went off the deep end and decided to play house with Devil. With his own body. But it was no less strong than that one.

But it was less effective.

No sudden surge of light.

No wing flaps.

Nada. Nothing.

Dean and his brother exchanged looks. 

“Maybe it takes a while he’s coming by wing? He didn’t fly far last time.”

_Dammit._ Dean dropped the blade and slammed his fists on the table, rattling the smoldering contents, wanting to sweep it off and hear the worthless crap break. “More likely he used his one phone call on trying to 'minister’ me. F***. ” He kicked the table leg then planted his hands on the table and hung his head and panted.

He could still feel Cas.

One hand, of its own accord, snaked up to his left arm.

The connection grew stronger at the contact. _He's alive. I'd feel it he weren't._

“Dean? Maybe we should try a different name. Cas--”

No. “Plan B.”

“Plan B?” 

In response, Dean turned to the bag he had dropped at the door and pulled out the devil glass. He looked at Sam.

Who nodded. Smiling grimly and clutching his nephilim-poker. “Plan B.”


	25. Plan B

This summoning had better success.

In a burst of light, the bastard appeared. Kneeling smack dab in the center of the special devil trap they had painted on the ground. His hands stretched out and up to the far wall, voice shaking.

"--had to be done. They were a threat; it's b-better this . . . “ The kid jerked. Glanced over his shoulder. “Way." He turned toward them, rising unsteadily. "You."

"Us." Dean waggled his blade and stabbed him in the heart. With his other hand, he snatched out the Enochian cuffs and slapped them on the nearest wrist.

The boy laughed. "Stronger than you have already tried that.” He burned through them.

Like his father had.

Eyes lighting up, he stepped toward Dean, setting the trap on fire. A signal. Dean nodded, and Sam leapt forth, thrusting his own blade in between the kid’s shoulder blades.

That put a kink in the bastard's plans, a pause in his step. His whole body shuddered, and he whirled on his feet, arms swinging out for balance. "You."

“Well, they weren’t Winchesters, were they?" Dean said. "You look a little . . . “ Dean took in the burn spreading across his black and gestured with his hand, mentally choosing his next weapon. He fingered the golden blade, soaked in holy water, tucked into the back of his pants. “Green around the wings, kid.”

Sam had said there would be a short delay before it would kick in.

Any second now. 

Jack whirled back, moving like a drunk. A drunk whose steps melted the cement floor.

“Stepfather warned me if I hurt the bond, it would rebound on me. He never said anything about the bondmates." He smirked. "First things first.” He waved a hand.

An invisible fist punched through Dean's chest and slammed him back into the wall . Something broke in his chest.

A lot of somethings.

He couldn’t breathe.

The devil boy's grin went toothy.

_Oh, God._

“Dean!” Then Sam began to chant something in shaking voice. Entirely in Enochian. And the blades, both of them, began to glow. Behind the nephilim, the dark wings began to flicker in and out of existence. Making the air shake and throb.

Jack staggered back, went down to a knee and hand. Wing-shadows flailing. “W-what?”

Dean still couldn’t breathe.

When he tried, all that came out was blood and pain and flakes of bone and tissue. Ribs. 

_Those are my ribs._

_And lungs._

His vision began to dim. But not before he saw Sam thrust out his hand at Jack. The wings, the blades, took on the blue-white light of grace. Jack’s legs were encased in flame as he turned and strained against whatever Sam was doing. His wings glinting like the sparks dancing before Dean's eyes.

 _Lily,_ Dean thought. _Isham._ When that had went down, they had needed Cas.

They didn't have Cas.

The world darkened further, save for the glow. Veins of it traced up Sam’s arm, then higher, the blue-white light etching fissures through Sam’s face. 

_Oh, God. What have you done, Sam?_

The blade in devil boy’s back pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

Again. 

Faster.

And faster.

Sam eyes lit up with an unearthly glow, and he cast Dean apologetic look. He chanted the last word, the one Dean recognized as "Oblivion," and the world paused, sucked in, and-- 

The archangel blade exploded into a thousand pieces of burning grace.

Dean's last thought before he died? _Cas, please._


	26. The Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have only a few chapters left, but they are hard coming. I hope to post them over this week.

It was wrong. It was all wrong. The emptiness. It was absolute.

Until it was not, until he was jarred out of it by bolts of pain. 

Cassiel gasped and looked about him.

Jack was no longer near him. He was with his charges. Weakening.

Destroying them.

His charges were in danger. 

Sam's soul was burning away.

Dean’s body was broken, was dying.

Without another thought, Cassiel spread his wings, split the ether, and flew to them.

Or rather, he landed outside the house, skidding in the mud. “This is going to take a while,” he said and spat out a mouthful of wet earth. He lifted his wings, stained with debris and death. They ached. They were deficient. But his charges. His pupil. Their needs came through strong enough. Gritting his teeth, Cassiel answered their call and tried again.

This time he made it a mile.

And again.

Five miles this time.

And again.

And again...


	27. Enough

Not a third of way there, Cassiel received a burst of energy. It sank in claws.

Charges had power. Bonds had power. And extreme danger threatening one's bondmates made for one of the strongest catalysts.

Three souls reached out for him. Three dying souls. Cassiel snared himself on their raw need, and dragged himself to them.

For a moment, the ether resisted, trying to drag him back.

It would not succeed. 

He wrenching free, tearing off a fifth of his feathers in the process.

The power, the distance, the act overwhelmed his senses. So, he swayed in place, catching up to himself, at first not understanding where he was, what he was sensing.

Then he did. 

More silence.

More loss.

Bonds dying.

Pupil dying.

Bond _mates_ dead.

They didn't even have form left. Their mingled essences swirled in the room, Jack’s trying to coalesce. On his own, it would take him months.

Cassiel fell to his knees, in the center of the blackened room where grace and souls speckled the walls like stars. But this was nothing so beautiful as that.

It was utterly pointless.

_Enough. This stops now._

With a snarl, he scooped up their essences with his wings, sank his hands into their midst, and revived them all. The act sent him to his hands and knees, but he rebuilt them just the same.

And they came to life the way they had died. Hateful. Violent. Courting death. 

Crouched in the center, Cassiel pressed fists into the concrete that still reeked with their thoughtlessness and malice; his grace crackled against the walls that whispered profanities against his kind and anything like it; his wings unfurled to all their senses and silenced their rising urges toward mutually assured destruction.

They gaped up at him. “Cas?” “Cass-Cassiel?” “Stepfather?”

"Now that I have your attention . . . " He glared at the cringing forms in turn, with the full weight of his fury. “. . . We will talk.”


	28. Cassiel's Plan

Unquestioning obedience had lasted until they reconvened in the work room of the brothers’ nest. Shock sloughed off, and other emotions grew in. They refused to take their eyes off either; they refused to feel an iota of repentance; they thought of nothing other than spreading death. 

Again.

Cassiel twisted a wing forward and rapped a sharp feathertip against the tabletop they stood around. It thunked like a blade against stone, reverberating throughout the room. All parties, smoldering with malice, winced and looked his way. The pupil cringed and begged for forgiveness and understanding.

The lesser charge rubbed at his chest, grateful to be alive, but wondering if Cassiel—the name he kept chewing on as if it were something bitter and hard to swallow—if Cassiel had restored his soul.

Dean’s jaw dropped and whispered, “Awesome.”

A few feathers softened toward that one, but it did not alter the song of his command. He demanded attention. Demanded obedience. 

And he would have it at last.

“Sit.”

They sat. Even the pupil. The brothers at one narrow end of the table. The nephilim at the opposite.

“Now listen.” 

Cassiel gestured with the wingtip. Three sets of eyes followed it—and many feathers. To them, the feathers shone like angel blades flattened into sharp-edged plate armor or knives. 

“I have restored you, with great cost, to your former state. That includes your grace, Jack; your soul, Sam; and--” Several feathers slid against each other, ringing like blades. “Your lungs, Dean. You are as you were meant to be. It is time to come to an understanding. I have a plan.”

“What cost?”

Dean and Jack glared at each other despite the mutual concern that had made them speak as one.

“What plan?” Sam stopped rubbing his chest and touched his cheek. Pulled his fingers away. Touched again the smooth skin. Thinking, _Thank God. Everything’s back. My soul. I don’t have to go through that again._

Cassiel gestured to Jack, whose shoulders and wings sank beneath the attention. His chin dropped almost level with the table top that he gripped. “Explain your actions.”

“Please, Stepfather.”

When frustrated, Cassiel self-soothed by rubbing feathers. Given his battle-readiness, the scissoring sound was imposing. Even to one with such great power. 

Jack used a bit of that power now in startling back, shooting himself to the far wall. The suddenness of the movement made the others jerk to their feet and reach for weapons. Or the spaces where they had once been. Those he had not manifested with their forms.

They scowled. 

Cassiel waved them silent with a flick of feathers, and using a curl of power, dragged Jack back in place. The chair scraped loudly in the silence.

“Report, Jack.”

“I, uh, I, uh, killed the angels. All of them. Because they were a threat. To us—me. Threat to me.”

Sam and Dean blinked at him. 

“Seriously?” Sam asked.

Jack nodded hesitantly.

Disgust layered Sam’s thoughts and words. “Like father, like son. Smashing toys right out of the gate. And you’re just a child.” _What will he do when he is older? He should have stayed dead._

Dean agreed but shrugged. “They were all dicks, anyway.” His gaze darted to Cassiel at the bristling sound. “Uhm.” He leant back from the table. “That we will miss dearly.”

With a growl of frustration, Cassiel turned and stalked along the table. He had heard a phrase once, though he could not place it; still, it suited this situation. _Like herding cats._ Obviously that shepherd never had to manage nephilim and humans. Having reached the end of the table, he turned too sharply and beheaded a chair, and a lamp in a shower of sparks. 

Cassiel glared at it.

Once his heart had settled, Dean thought, _Not the mark I was thinking of. But, hey, cool, he can carve his name with his own win—_

“Dean.”

Dean sat up straight at Cassiel’s sharp tones, thinking, _Yes, sir._ Then grew irritated with his response. 

This was not going to work. 

Cassiel was borrowing feathers that were not his own. He was no commander of a warriors; he had worked _with,_ not over, a squadron of healers. These were neither, simply hunters and a fledgling. 

“You need guidance. A leader.” He softened his feathers from battle readiness. “You are too like your father, Jack. You are too much the hunter, Sam, Dean. And my brethren do not know how to bend with the times. So that was why I have woken. But not in enough time to prevent senseless destruction, but to remedy it.“ 

He looked over his shoulder, purpose giving his wings heft and glory. “I know what I must do.”

“Which is to explain this cost business?”

Misplaced concern. There would always be costs. He was made to bear them. 

“Which is to request your transport.”

That answer earned stares of incomprehension. Jack recovered the quickest, asking, “All of us? In a car? Together?” He shuddered. “I’d rather—“ 

Cassiel cocked his head.

Jack licked his lips and sagged again. “Be at your side. No matter what method you choose.” 

“Good.” Cassiel turned to Dean and Sam. “You?”

“I think I want an answer,” Sam said. “What are you going to do?”

Dean nodded. “You wanted to talk? We’re talking. It’s when you keep us in the dark, things go to hell.” He cut Jack a glance. “Literally this time.”

 _Confusing humans. Did they never just obey?_

“I intend to do what I was made to do: heal and restore my brethren. I intend to do what my obligations demand of me: protect my charges and pupil. For that, I need your help.” Cassiel stretched his wings, priming them for flight. Then winced and drew them close. “I will exhaust myself if I fly in stages again.”

That shuttered the fight in Dean. Standing, he fished in his pocket and produced some keys that smelled like . . . a second home to him. One he called “Baby.” “Let’s go.”

The other two looked at Dean.

“What? He’s the man with a plan. I’m sure--” He glanced askance at Cassiel. “He’ll explain it _in detail_ on the way, right, Cas?” 

Sam sighed and stood as well. ‘Where are we going?”


	29. Road Trip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe DPR wanted a longer chapter. I took your advice. Here ya go. :-)

The little bastard couldn’t wait until after Cas explained himself to start trouble. Oh, no. He had to start the minute Cas said they were heading back to the baby shack by the lake.

There was no way in hell the kid was going to sit in the front seat—or alone with Cas in the back. Sam only needed a nod to get on the same page. 

“All righty, campers. Get comfy in the back,” Dean said. “I’ll take the first shift. We’ll pick up snacks when we fill up.” 

The only problem was they’d have to layover at one point during the drive to Washington. 

Cas’s way of rebooting from the blue screen of death was better than Red Bull for you giving wings, but being packed like sardines didn’t allow you your four hours’ sleep on route. That would only make it that much harder to take turns watching devil boy at the hotel while the other slept.

“Your fears are groundless, Dean, Sam,” Cas said. And to Dean’s disappointment, he flicked his wings out of existence before he ducked inside. _Guess he didn’t want to behead any sardines._ “There is no need for vigils. We have reached an accord.” When Sam “uh huh”ed him, closed the trunk, and squeezed Cas over to the middle, Cas tried to argue him out of it. “You’re uncomfortable. This is unnecessary. I am in no danger. You are in no danger.”

“Yet,” the boy hissed beneath his breath. He drew a finger along the lining under the window. It sizzled, and he grinned his shit-eating grin.

Where were angelic brass knuckles when you needed them? “Watch it, Dumbo. We still have some angel snot left to roast you with.” Answer? In the trunk. And hopefully in Sam’s jacket pocket.

“I was weak! From the angel attack, or you would never have succeeded.” 

“Said the smear on the ground,” Sam muttered. “Move over. You are taking up half the seat.”

As Dean pulled out, Cas reached over Jack and restored Baby from her unprovoked molestation. “Silence, everyone, please.”

“I am not an elephant with enlarged ears. And this is slow,” Jack said. “And confining. Like your minds.”

Sam gritted his teeth. Loudly. “You can always walk.”

“Don’t make me pull this over,” Dean said, dividing his attention between the back seat and pulling onto the road. “I will, you know.”

Cas sighed and whatever anyone was going to say next never emerged. Tongues flapped, but no words came out. Speech had become persona non grata—verbosa non grata? Whatever. Even if they shouted, there was just this muffling pressure like being underwater.

Except for Cas’s last words, delivered with a small smile as he sat back in his seat. “That’s much better.”

* * *

  
The worst silent treatment ever lasted for the next four, climb-the-wall hours. Even the radio and cassette player had fallen on Cas’s shit list.

Cas got over it when Dean returned from paying for the gas and caught the bag of animal cookies tossed his way. “I will lift the . . . “ He cocked his head at Dean as Sam claimed the bags of goodies. “I will lift the Cone of Enochian Silence, in exchange for a pact of peace.” 

The silent treatment popped like a water balloon, leaving a ringing sound in their ears. Dean shook his head. Sam screwed a finger in his ear and popped his jaw a few times. Even the kid touched his temple, until he realized he was being watched (when wasn’t he?) and pretended to lean casually against Baby's trunk—but a little too hard, forcing the Impala forward a few inches.

Dean snorted and pulled out his choice of snack. Jerky stick. “Pinky swear time?”

“No,” Cas said. With a practiced flip of his wrist, his angel blade snicked out.

Dean had been in the process of tearing open his snack with his teeth. A bit of plastic nearly was nearly sucked down a lung at the unexpected, unwanted sight.

Sam stepped over and lowered Cas’s hand. “Not here.” And tilted his head toward the gas station's camera. 

“Not ever,” Dean wheezed. He had seen enough angel blades to last a lifetime, unless they were lodged in good-for-nothing’s nephilim and their Baby Daddy’s backs.

“We go no further until we reach accordance.”

Jack sniffed at Dean. “You think loudly.” And with a snap of his fingers, a Twinkie and a Coke appeared in his hands. “And stupidly.”

“That had better come from the bags.”

“Why? Your money comes from thievery and deception.”

Cas sighed. The red bag of cookies crinkled as he raised a hand and pointed two fingers heaven-ward. “I suspect you prefer the Cone—“

“Everyone in the car,” Sam said, catching the keys Dean tossed him. “Now.”

Cas stared at Dean until he took the hint and slid into the passenger seat. As soon as the doors were shut, Cas sliced open his palm and began to coo some Enochian over his pool of blood and light. 

“Great, blood brother time.” Dean jerked forward in his seat, rubbing his eyes. But he couldn’t get rid of that damned image flaring through his mind. _Light spilled out of Cas, brighter and brighter._

_Until he was gone. Burnt wings sizzled on the ground._

Once started, the memory wouldn’t stop. It played over and over--

Something brushed his elbow. “His death disturbs you. I wish I could--” 

Dean snapped opened his eyes. “Talking in third person now?” The palm was healed, as if never cut. Same as Cas was healed as if never stabbed in the back by his protégé’s father. A wisp of light hovered and twisted above the skin, like a snake without a snake charmer. “Cute.” He thrust his fingers through it. “What do I do with it? Sing it a song?” 

The hand clasped his, fingers closing around the wrist, and Dean banged his head as _Something,_ capital S, shot through his body. 

Dean snatched back his hand and slapped it over the creep-crawlies in his left arm. “What the hell?” Cleared his throat and tried an octave lower. “What the hell was that, Cas?”

The others stared at him. Sam with concern. Jack with a bitch face. Cas with a little smile.

 _So that was just me?_ “None of you got that?”

The others held up their palms. A blue-black snake symbol twining between four dots marked their palms. When he could prize his hand free, Dean saw he had not been left out.

“Your bond reacts to my grace. It is a sign of its strength.”

Oh.

“The pact is sealed. It will fade in two weeks’ of your Earth’s time. Until then, none of us can harm another.”

“What happens if we do?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, for instance, what if I accidentally slip and smash my fist through the kid’s face as I catch myself?”

Jack slid down in the back seat and glared out the window. “You should try it. It’s fun.” And he thumped a fist against his arm rest, making Dean wonder if Baby should have been included in the Treaty of the Blue Snake, or did holding it inside her save her from suffering a tantrum or two?

“Inanimate objects are not included, but your Baby will not be harmed. If you will drive now, I will answer your questions best I can, Sam, Dean.”  


* * *

“Best he can” was mostly a repetition of ground already covered (the “heal and restore” schtick) and ground only a nerd (Sam) cared about. The mechanics of restoration, for example, started with “I read the blueprints Father had written in the subject’s cells and followed the instructions” and devolved into a chemistry lesson. 

On the more pertinent topic of how many angels Cas intended to reboot? “Each rank needs replenishing.” 

On the topic of how many he _could_ reboot? “All, given resources and time.”

On the topic of costs to him? “I am made to bear it.”

On the topic of costs, take five? “It is unimportant.” 

On the topic of costs, take thirty? “Dean.”

On the topic of Baby Daddy? Silence. Then “That topic disturbs everyone.” Underscored by devil baby’s seat-melting squirming.

On the topic of Mary? “I don’t know if she is alive, Sam. We will know more when we enter that world. But she is important to you and your brother’s healing. She will be recovered.” 

On the crapton of questions that brought up? “I need to meditate and gather my energies for the tasks ahead. Feel free to converse among yourselves.”

Yeah, right. Uncomfortable silence it was, broken up by Bon Jovi, CCR, and company; a dinner in which Cas and Jack compared which molecules they preferred; and sleeping arrangements of which the least said the better. 

Dean thought fatigue getting to him when Worst Road Trip Ever took an abrupt turn into psychedelic and nauseating. Sam woke with a snort and a start. 

“Gah.” And began urking.

Dean wisely translated that into “pull over” and yanked the wheel, skidding over to the shoulder.

They barely made it outside before they heaved up their breakfast. That definitely didn’t taste like a bunch of carbon atoms on the return.

“Dean? Sam?”

Dean wiped his mouth clear and staggered toward the voice. A hand caught him before the shoulder’s gravel could rise up and greet his face. Unable to trust his eyes or feet, Dean clenched his eyes shut and clutched a trench-coat-covered arm. “What?” He gagged again.

Then a dizzying change. The world righted, and the spins stopped. Dean blinked up at him. Then over at Sam, looking less green as he rubbed his forehead.

“Smiting sickness. My apologizes. I did not know it would affect you.”

“How did you get rid of it? You couldn’t last time.”

Cas cocked his head. Opened his mouth. Shut it. “I have dampened the effects. I will remove the cause at the nest. Can you continue?”

If the other option was abandoning Baby on the road and Cas’s “exhausting” himself by flight, then well . . . Dean clapped his hands. “All righty, campers. Pile in.” Sam gave him a minor bitch face at his enthusiasm before reclaiming shot gun. The kid smirked, announced, “ _I_ was never affected,” and shut his door. Cas? He squeezed Dean's arm. “Do not worry. The worst will not remain ahead of us for long; it is soon to pass.”

Dean had a feeling he wasn’t talking about ground zero of smitey zone.

Real encouraging.

Equally encouraging? 

Pulling into the drive at the place so much bad had gone down. Where devil boy was born. Where they had lost Mom. Where Cas had died.


	30. Restoration: Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't have time to proof this one before I posted. I'll try to do that later.

Baby shack had seen better days. Too bad it couldn’t have burnt down entirely, taking the entire property with it.

Instead of saying any of that, Dean parked the car and tried out a whistle. And laughed at his success. “Someone needs to call Nate.” 

Sam gave him the latest version of bitch face and bailed on them. 

“What?” Dean turned off the engine and shouted after him. “I saw him on TV once, when I was channel surfing.” 

“Our goal is inside,” Cas said as he left the vehicle too.

The kid said nothing and followed.

Dean, well, he would have welcomed even the distraction of the cone of Enochian silence at the moment. Instead, he rested his hands on the wheel, closed his eyes, and took a moment for himself.

Of course, that was when the earth trembled and wood cracked. When Dean opened his eyes, ground zero glowed like a giant nightlight. Threads of light raced toward the house, up it, flickering like a thousand fireflies, filling in gaps. A few seconds later, the house had been restored to its former glory. Trembles died. Wood stopped creaking. Light show over. 

At what cost? 

Dean got out and brushed past the quiet kid and gaping Sam, and helped Cas rise from his crouch. Did he seem slower? Unsteady? Tired? Dean wasn’t sure, and Cas wasn’t sharing. 

At least, he wasn’t sharing anything Dean cared to learn about. “I have restored the house and removed the sickness. You may safely enter.” Then he cocked his head and peered behind him.

Jack was hanging back, wringing his hands, staring at the house with a look of horror. 

“What? He get the color wrong?”

“Jack?” Cas returned to him.

“I don’t want you to revive them,” the explanation exploded out of him. “They don’t like me. I’ll just have to kill them again.”

Thunder rumbled, and Dean’s hairs on his arms stood up on end, as Cas put on the feather show again. The one with all the sharp edges and supple metal. Slice and dice Cas, about to ream the kid a new one.

And the kid knew it. He scuttled backward, almost falling to his knees, and whispered, “Sorry. It’s true. Don’t be angry.”

“Hate to say it,” Dean said, rubbing his arm, “But the kid has a point. We don’t have time to convince them stow their crap.”

“Are you going to add them to the pact?” Sam nodded at his hand.

Dean looked down at his palm. “That’ll get cramped fast.”

“No. I am not here to revive them.” Sharp edges rippled and softened like wind through a field of grass. No longer steely winged and steely eyed, he spoke gently enough--for Cas: “I am here for Kelly Kline.” 

One second the kid was frozen in place; the next he had mimicked Speedy Gonzales, complete with the yips of excitement, zipping in front of Cas and seizing him by the arm. Cas was pulled so off balance, he had to splay his wings to recover, and Dean and Sam had to duck or loose an eyeball even as they pulled out weapons. 

Was this an attack? It felt like an attack.

The kid was too busy jabbering and bouncing up and down to notice: “Mom? Mom? You never said you could; I thought . . . ”

Oh. Just enthusiasm. Still no reason to put his angel blade away.

Cas straightened and fluffled his wings, puffing them up to twice their size. Once, twice, and then entirely out of existence. 

Pity.

They were easier to read than his stiff gestures and occasional head tilts.

And they were just awesome, in general.

Cas answered, “I did not judge you ready. I was wrong. You are no angel, ready to obey seconds after creation. You need to heal before you can grow into--”

The kid didn’t wait to learn about Cas’s plans for his maturity. One second they were both standing there; the next, they were both gone. Like an afterimage, a streak had flickered, dashing inside of all places. With a curse, Dean raced after him, Sam hot on his heels. He squeezed the angel blade. If the kid had Gonzalesed Cas anywhere other than upstairs . . . 

* * *

They had just made it to the upstairs hallway when they saw the flash of blue-white light. Sam jogged straight through it, raising an arm to shield his eyes. Dean felt it like a blow, remembering, remembering.

The lightshow went on too long. 

It couldn’t be the same.

There would be shouts.

He’d know it.

He’d feel it.

“So move, dumbass.” Dean shook himself and plunged through the bedroom doorway, just in time to see Kelly was Kelly again. Complete with nightgown and startled look. 

There had been peace on her face—God knows why, dying the way she had—when he had wrapped her up and burned her.

There must have been enough essence remaining in this room for Cas to restore her here.

Shock had faded enough for her to stop clutching at her heart and reach out for Cas. He didn’t take her hand. 

Too busy propping himself up, with both hands, on the mattress.

“Castiel?”

“No. Cassiel. Allow me to introduce—”

_“Mom!”_

The kid plowed past Cas, rushing into her arms.

“Jack?”

No, he practically plowed into Cas. Knocked back, Cas staggered and went down. Dean couldn’t move fast enough to catch him. And dragging Cas to his feet was like changing a tire on Baby without a jack; it couldn’t be done. 

Not until Cas wanted it to be. He rose slowly. Straightened his back stiffly. And trudged toward the door. Dean would have said something, if he hadn't felt _it_ tickling his face, seen _it_ out of the corner of his eye. A flicker of movement as something faded _out_ of invisibility. His hand batted away the nuisance, and caught something tangible if not yet visible. He knelt and picked it up its twin, heart dropping. 

A feather. 

From where he crouched he watched them appear one by one.

Matching the one sketching its way into existence, resting on his palm.

Sam picked one up too and ran his fingers along the dark edges. Dark. Not shiny. Not steely. Just dull and black. "Dean. This isn't good."

"No shit, Sherlock." 

And crunching the ones he held in his fist, he tore after Cas. This time, there would be answers.


	31. Balance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ditto. I'll need to proof this one later.

All of life had balance. The difficulty lay in finding it before everything fell "out of whack" as Dean would say. Thus far, Cassiel's every attempt at remedy made him slide further and further to one side or the other of the scales. He had misjudged the tipping points between his responsibilities, and he had to restore his charges and pupils. Because of that, he had to sacrifice his own healing, to ensure he had the strength to fill the minimum vacancies of heaven. Because of that, he had to rely upon his charges' transport. Because of that, a few his brothers had to wait till later centuries to be restored. And so on. 

But his worst sin had been in misjudging Jack. The instant Cassiel was created, he was ready to obey. But a nephilim was not an angel. 

If only he had restored Kelly Kline immediately. He could feel his pupil’s healing from here. The yawning void he had tried to fill in with himself as “Stepfather” was shrinking by the second.

The problem was her son had cost as much as an archangel. Saving Kelly was the tipping point. She was a human; he had not counted on something in her make resisting his powers. He had not counted on her halving his stores of energy. Now, with every passing moment, Cassiel leaked power. He was helpless to stop it curling off his wings and dropping lifelessly at his feet.

But it was necessary.

Dean could not be made to see this. Instead, enraged, he imagined thrusting Cassiel against the transport, arm pinning him against his chest, and demanding, "Are you falling?"

Cassiel was not so weak that a human could overpower him.

But he had misjudged so much; if this helped Dean heal . . . 

He let his back hit the vehicle and accepted the words and emotions growled in face.

More calmly, Cassiel answered:

"Dean."

"No, for once in your life, give me a straight answer, dammit. Are. You. Falling?" 

How could he answer him when that wasn’t the only question on his mind? 

Which one did he address? Which way would the scales tip when he did so?

"I am redressing an imbal--"

The arm dug in harder. It was meant to be a threat. In time, after he was done healing the last of his chosen, it would actually hurt. This was not wise to say. That would upset the balance entirely.

"Dean," Sam said from behind him. "This isn't helping."

"I'm waiting."

When no matter what answer he chose would infuriate, what did balance matter? Cassiel sagged against the arm and answered:

"No, Dean. It would defeat the purpose for which I have been created to fall from grace or die so easily. Once I’ve done my work, I will sleep until my energy stores have recovered."

His charge’s emotions shook, evident in his hands and tongue. "H-how long?"

"Approximately fifty of your years, give or take a few months."

"And if you don't reboot anymore people?" Sam asked. His mind raced too, but not as wildly, not as destructively as his brother’s. "If you take a break--"

Cassiel shook his head. "I am leaking energy as we speak. If I do nothing and wantonly waste my purpose, which I will not, I will last but a week.”

“And if you reboot some?”

“If fulfill my function, I sleep in twenty-four hours and five min--" 

With a snarl, Dean grabbed him by his coat and thrust him back. Once, twice, and then Sam pulled him away. Balance not only utterly, hopelessly lopsided, but ripped off and tossed aside.

All the steps taken toward healing, hard won, undone in seconds.

Dean jerked away, shrugging Sam off. "Whatever. I'm done." And he stalked off, away from the car, away from the house, just away.

"You should follow him, Sam. He shouldn't be alone now. His emotions are a like a storm cloud."

Sam agreed, but he stayed where he was. "You should have told us, Cas." Though, by this point, his "Cas" didn't taste or resonate of "Castiel" any longer, but "Cassiel." That name came with an equal measure of pain and hopefulness. "How much time do you have?"

Cassiel envied his charge’s abilities at balancing. He would have made a great healer. His brother? An excellent guardian angel. All that intense, protective fury was wasted on the rocks he kicked, the tree he punched, on the primal scream he sent skyward.

Sam flinched and said, "Wait here."

So Cas waited. He had little other choice. Until he healed his first angel, including the flight wings, it would be impossible to transport himself anywhere save by foot.

And looking down at the layer of feathers encircling his feet, he knew he couldn’t run far right now.

* * * 

It took fifteen minutes, but Sam returned alone, carrying with him, like an angry shower, the brunt of his brother’s venting. "He's going to stay and keep, uhm, watch over Kelly and Jack. Who's next? If you’re going to get a couple in, we gotta hurry."

"Laila." 

"Never heard of her."

"Him. In the grammatically neutral sense of the pronoun. We have no gender. Once I restore him, he can transport me by swifter methods. He was once a healer under my wing."

"Exactly how many angels are you planning on, uh, rebooting? Maybe you better give me a list."

A sound query. “Gabriel.”

“You can--? Okay. And then?”

“Balthazar. Anna.” Cassiel paused, mulling over the reservations Sam had that choice. “She will not harm you.” It upset him that she had tried, following orders, creating an imbalance in her life that no doubt would trouble her rejuvenation. “Inias. Gadreel.”

“Hell, no.”

Death. That one had hurt his charge, in so many ways. He could be made to wait. The angels needed to work with him and not be inclined to harm his charges or his goals. “Samandriel. Uriel.”

“No.”

“Zac—“

“No. And you can cross Metatron, Naomi, Hester, and any other archangel other than Gabriel off your list.”

“I do not have the strength for another archangel beyond Gabriel at the moment.” Although, he wished he had the strength to journey to Michael and tend his needs. That too must wait. Cassiel tilted back his head. “Hannah.”

_Cas's girlfriend? Okay._

That information was disturbing. But not enough to remove her from his list. “Benjamin. Ish—“

“Benjamin’s okay. Who else?”

“Joshua.” 

The dozen names that followed made no more impression on Sam than Laila. They were unfamiliar, but not to Cassiel.

"Maybe you should limit yourself to the Top Ten Hits, all right?" Worry filled his mind, with each dropped feather. But in no small measure, his mind raced over two he most wanted to make sure Cassiel would save. His mom "topped" his "hit list." Almost on even equal level was Castiel.

The unknown.

The non-existent.

Cassiel tried to explain this to him. In turn, Sam pointed out a spot, an area replete with scattering essence, the place he had woken up. When Cassiel opened his sore wings and tasted it from beside the car, answers resisted his question. He was denied. 

"Just make sure to save room for them."

"Humans do not consume the same energy as an angel. I would not have forgotten your mother." 

"Just promise."

“I cannot remove any from my list. In fact, there should be more, to ensure balance among the different ranks.”

“Cas. Please.”

Cassiel nodded. This small concession lifted an immeasurable amount of grief and worry form his charge’s mind.

It was worth it, then. 

"All right. Let's go." Sam cast one last look in the direction his brother had taken, the route that snaked past where Cassiel had fallen when he had tried to fly so shortly after waking. One of his first misjudgments and sins.

Far from his last.

Cassiel would have liked the chance to say to soothe his human. But there would be time. Twenty-three hours and forty-five minutes of it. It would have to do.


	32. Restoration: Part 2

After Laila, Cassiel offered to part ways with Sam. The charges were a pair; they did better together. Their reunion could only alleviate some of the anger-laced pain Dean steadily thumped over the bond. 

Sam outright refused. "Dean needs time." Or in other words, _You can't be left alone, and I want to avoid the fallout when Dean's like this._ Or thus translated the confusing mix of emotions and thoughts.

"Laila can assist me." In fact, she was eager to assist in more than transport. Her fingers and wings twitched, eager to tackle his wings and do what she could to slow the hemorrhaging of power. "And you are concerned about your intestinal movements after repeated etheric relocations."

"W-what?"

Cassiel cocked his head to study Sam better. "You thought you'd not be able to poop for a week already, something you didn't miss from our methods of travel. I don't want to negatively impact your health." 

"N-no, I'm good to go." Embarrassment flooded his thoughts and tinged his words. 

Cassiel had no idea why. It sounded like a legitimate concern for a creature that consumed materials for fuel.

Perhaps he could have convinced Sam, if not for Gabriel. 

Cassiel knew his old friend would be costly, but essential to his long-term plans. He had to come next. If only, the act hadn't driven him to his hands and knees in a puddle of his own molt.

The impact hadn't been noticed right away; Gabriel was always good for a distraction, and this was one of the few angels Sam favored. Although, Cassiel did not know why on that either. After all, according to Sam's thoughts, the last time Gabriel had looked that shocked, he had been trapped in a ring of holy fire by them. 

“Castiel?” Gabriel asked.

"No. Cassiel." His song was soft; his wings barely twitching up before resuming their ungainly sprawl. Cassiel was glad Sam--and especially Dean--could not see them now. No awe would remain. "Why is there such a thing as holy oil, and why have you been trapped by it?"

"What's a little holy oil or time loops between friends. When you boys break the world, you really go all out, don’t you?” Before Sam could reply, Gabriel looked at Cassiel. Really looked at him, opening wide his senses. "You look a bit ragged around the edges, Cassie. I know what you need." He snapped his fingers, and streamers and banners festooned the room; drinks appeared in his, Laila's, and Sam's hands; sweet-smelling human foods stretched along a table; and a song played in the background, repeating, "Celebrate good times, come on!"

A party blower snaked out at Gabriel's lips, bearing the same words--"Welcome back, Cassie"--written on it that the banners held. 

Sam ripped the matching party blower from his own lips and snapped, "How does that help?"

"I can think of worse things than throwing a bash for my old friend in his final hours." 

"Think harder."

Gabriel smiled and snapped his fingers, and something called a disco ball began to flash colored lights about the room. "Better?"

"Gabr--"

Sam's train of thought was lost when Laila blew his own party horn.

They both looked at him. 

"What? I like it." And Laila straightened his party hat, bearing Cassiel's name. Something Sam found in sharp contrast the $3000 suit he wore. He blew the horn again and smiled. 

Gabriel turned back to Sam. "What would you have me do, Sam? Wring my hands? Give him the cold shoulder like dear old Dean?"

"Heal him."

"That's not his function." "That's impossible." His brother and himself spoke as one. 

Then with a snap of fingers, the room was restored, and Gabriel was kneeling before him, clasping his arms, his wings stroking down his own in a comforting gesture. "You know I'd do anything for you, if I could." 

Cassiel nodded. "I know. I have a favor to ask." He gritted his teeth and forced the drooping feathers of his best left wing to display the image and knowledge of his student, Jack.

"Of course." With a flick of his wrist, Gabriel manifested his archangel blade. "I can take care of that problem for you right away."

"No." Cassiel struggled to rise. His wings automatically pushed against the floor to assist. His wings automatically gave out and dropped him back to the floor. The lost feathers plumed in the air--like morbid confetti, Sam thought. 

Cassiel tried again, and made it on the second try. 

But only with the help of his human and his friend. 

"You can't, brother. I need your kindness, not your violence." 

This time he took care with his message. This time he made sure there was no mistake. This time he revealed his full intent to Gabriel. 

It was rejected, feathers closing themselves off to the idea.

"You are the best teacher I know, Gabriel."

More feathers shuttered.

"This will work."

More.

"Gabriel, please."

"Fine, fine, I will take on your pet project. For all the good it will do." Gabriel glanced up at Sam and said, "Make yourself useful and try and keep him from getting killed before his day's over. Good boy.” In a flutter of strong wings, he cut the ether and was gone; a dog biscuit appeared in Sam's hand.

Sam snorted and tossed it aside. 

"Let me guess. You sent him after Jack? To teach him what?"

"As much as possible, now and for the future." 

_Great, another non-answer._ "Never mind." _Pigheaded as Dean. And the real Cas._ He winced over his thoughts, and his decisions firmed, setting in stone. "You're not going the rest of the way alone."

Leaning against his charge, Cassiel could think of a hundred reasons why the offer was unnecessary.

He could think of only one reason to agree.

Perhaps he could indulge himself a little, without harm.

"I would appreciate the company of my charges in my final hours."

Sam winced. "Don't talk like that around Dean."

Yes. Oh, yes. "Understood."

They turned to Laila, ready for the next on “the itinerary.” His former pupil nodded, blew his paper horn, and cut the ether with his six wings. At least, with this success, Cassiel had only left behind about a fourth of his remaining feathers. Better than he had expected.

* * * 

The rest went well, although the same could not be said for his wings or his relationship with Dean.

His wings were in a worse state than when he had woken. Some looked skeletal, and his senses were muffled and his songs weak. The stung constantly, with every shift, with every breeze, with every use.

Dean would not be impressed with them now.

Half-heartedly from the ground, Cassiel answered Ambriel, "No, I am not Castiel. I am Cassiel." Meanwhile he used his remaining senses to listen in on the “phone call” between brothers.

His relationship with his primary charge had deteriorated more swiftly than his wings.

Cassiel had tried to speak with Dean in person, between angels. Dean had "cold shouldered" him just like Gabriel had said.

He had tried to speak over the communication device Dean, Sam, and most humans kept in their pocket. That had resulted in frequent disconnects. 

The only person Dean communicated with was Sam, and only when Sam initiated the conversation. 

Such as currently:

"Yeah, some chick called Ambriel. She's the last. Number 21. No, the 19th was the cherub." Sam laughed. "Yeah, Huggy McFeels A lot." Then more somberly: "I didn't know he was dead either. How's it going over there? Dean, you have to stop threatening Gabriel with stakes and holy oil. I don't care how tempting it is; Cas wants--" He looked down at phone. It had lost its connection to his brother. 

"Those devices seem unreliable and overly complicated. You should look into a permanent bond with your brother that allows telepathic communication. They only fail in death."

"Uh . . . right, anyway." Sam gestured at Laila to assist, and Sam knelt beside Castiel to help him to his feet. "Time to head back to the lake." 

Laila put away his paper horn and readied his wings, but the four-winged angel cleared his throat and minced wings and stepped their way. "Uhm."

He had spoken almost too softly to be heard by human ears.

Sam noticed some of it anyway. "You need something . . . Ambriel, right?" 

He pushed his vessel’s big glasses up his nose. Opened his mouth. Closed it.

Cassiel's wings were too weak and tired to pick apart the reason behind her hesitation. 

But at last, it came out with a nervous twitter of his wings.

"Great old one, you won't ask me to attend you to that other world? Where you left Lucifer? It’s just . . . . it didn't turn out so well last time against the Darkness. As I told Castiel, I work in records." 

Apparently, Cassiel was leaking more than feathers.

It was good that Dean and Sam couldn't see his wings. They would not approve of his plan. 

"No."

"You're not a warrior? Why did you fight Amara then?"

"Well, it's obvious? The same reason you sent Castiel." She looked at Cassiel, almost forgetting who he was, because of the vessel. Remembering. "We're expendable. Although . . . " Ambriel cocked his head and tilted his wings heavenward. "Given our numbers, maybe I am less so now."

"You are all important to me."

Ambriel smiled. Dipped his wings at Cassiel. And flew through the ether.

"What?!"

Cassiel had gleaned some life events from everyone he had revived; it was unavoidable. Ambriel was no exception. "He was ordered to see if Amara had been smited by heaven's attack. Amara consumed him out of desperation and ire." 

The odd thing was, most of those life events from Gabriel to Balthazar to Hannah featured the previous inhabitant of this vessel.

However, they soon accepted Cassiel’s presence and Castiel's lack. Most with some sense of mourning.

But not a one denied Castiel’s existence.

It made no sense.

"No. We didn’t—he’s not—" _God, that’s why he said yes to Lucifer?_ And he remembered the words from the lake, between them and Jack, and wondered how it could go so wrong that Cas still thought himself only a tool, not a friend, not a “brother.” “Dammit, Cas.”

Tired, oh so tired of this debate, and unable to bear up against Sam's outrage and anger, Cassiel suggested, "Perhaps you should ask Castiel that. I cannot."

Sam sputtered some more before grumbling under his breath, "Oh, trust me, I will," and reaching down, he dragged Cassiel's shoulder over his arm. He grunted as he tried to lift him upward. And failed.

With a strained voice: "Some help here?"

Laila didn't make a move. He had read the situation well enough. Cassiel himself looked carefully away, picking at his trench coat.

"Oh." Sam looked down at the feathers. The fewest yet carpeted the floor. Just a "baker's dozen." "I thought you were . . . “ _Getting better._ “I thought Laila?"

Laila made a sad sound on his party blower. Drawing undue violence from Sam's thoughts. Laila swiftly tucked his plaything away—in the ether—before the threat in Sam's mind could be enacted. "His stores are nearly depleted. There are fewer feathers to fall."

"So you're getting worse?" 

Thoughts of a countdown ticked like a clock in Sam's head, not for the first time. 

Cassiel answered the unspoken question. "Three hours, five minutes, and twenty four seconds remain. If you would not mind, I would like to rest here . . . just for a half hour or so?"

"No, no, that's fine. We can sit a while." And he sat down beside, shoulder brushing Cassiel's, comfort brushing him too. His head tilted back, and he watched the leaves flicker in the breeze and listened to the birds chitter. "Not a bad place to catch our breath, huh?" 

A great swell of gratitude rolled down his wings. Strong enough to ease some of their ache. Enough that he wanted to make up for his earlier short-temperedness. "Sam?

He turned to him. "Yeah?"

"Tell me about your previous guardian, Castiel."


	33. Gathering before the Rift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is almost over. Two or three more chapters, which I can post today and tomorrow.

When they landed, Cassiel nearly brought down Sam with him as he stumbled. Only Laila's quick thinking saved him.

Balance. It was always about balance. His body remembered what was no longer true. A full set of wings. He had tried to compensate; he had overcompensated over . . . . He spread his wings, and it was more than pain that made Cassiel draw them back, tucking them close into his body, away from Laila's pitying gazes and cringes of empathy.

"Cas?" Sam held tight to his arm as Laila stepped back. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." Cassiel laughed at himself. "Except for my vanity." He straightened. "My pride."

This charge looked doubtful, and emoted it too.

Gabriel's sudden appearance didn't help matters. Even before the archangel’s lustrous wings were settling against his back, he was looking Cassiel up and down. "You’ve gone past well done to overdone. You need to sleep."

That only upset Sam. 

He perceived sleep as loss—true enough for one of his short lifespan.   
That loss drew on wounds deeper than Cassiel had time to heal. It had taken longer than a half hour to get him here; but if Cassiel had left the last restoration place any sooner, Laila would have been catching his unconscious form.

The Sleep would have come swiftly then.

“I must see it through. It cannot wait decades until my stores are replenished." When this assurance fell flat, he turned to Gabriel. "And Jack? Did your training meet success?”

His older brother stepped aside and revealed their pupil, who was scuffing his toe in the dirt and looking away from them all. His emotions were as heavy as his wings. 

Gabriel glared at him. "As much as can be expected given the material at hand." He turned back to Cassiel. "You didn't sense him? Do you even have an hour left?"

No. "I sense enough."

"Well, I sense you'll need this." With a practiced flick of his wrist, he extruded and held out his archangel blade. It practically sang in the air will its owner’s ill intent. "Consider it a parting gift. I’ve gone up against him before; don’t leave home without it. Here."

Cassiel stepped back, unsteady on his feet, wings shivering in dismay. They crackled dully. Sam caught his arm. 

Words returned to him. "I do not need that. I am a healer."

"Lucifer makes warriors at out of us all."

Cassiel refused again.

"Well, if you don't want it." Sam reached for it. 

Gabriel snatched it back and waggled it with an "Uh uh uh. You didn't say the magic word." And for some reason, white rabbits, a rotund man, and dinosaurs danced across his feathers.

Dinosaurs. Fascinating creatures. He wished he could have witnessed their creation. Perhaps he might restore one on his reawakening . . .

Cassiel might have missed Jack and his low emotions. It was impossible to ignore Dean. He stalked from the house and snatched it from Gabriel's hand without a word. His thoughts were thick with anger and terrible need and the constant seesawing between loss and denial. 

Following him was Kelly, and her arrival produced a gyration of emotions and feathers in her son. At the forefront, hackle-raising worry. He grabbed her hands. "Mom, you can't--" 

She looked at Gabriel first, then her gaze seized on Cassiel. "He's going up against his . . . against _him._ " In her hand, she awkwardly held up an angel blade. Not even a warrior, Cassiel knew she was more likely to hurt herself than the one she intended to stab to defend her son. Yet this was no ordinary angel blade. It came from a brother Cassiel did not have time to revive. Her fears quivered even as her purpose steeled. "My son won't face him alone."

This was not part of his plan. He had no time for deviation. No desire for her loss.

The truth was blunt but necessary.

"Kelly, Lucifer holds no love for you. You were a tool, and he will use you against his son."

"I won't let Jack face _him_ alone."

Cassiel stepped forward—staggered forward—and held her shoulders with his hands. He met her eye. "He is not alone."

She stared a long moment and then her resolution shuddered inside. Her arm sagged. The blade dropped from her hand and thudded against the sand as she hugged him. "Protect him."

"For as long as I can."

"Thank you, Castiel."

Tiredly, he corrected her. "Cassiel."

Dean had been silent during this interchange, but his thoughts and emotions had been far from still. They were their sharpest when a blade was held near Cassiel; again during his vow. He only cut himself on them.

"Dean," Cassiel tried, turning to him. 

Dean shook himself and turned away, gesturing at Jack with the borrowed blade. "Better hurry before Heaven's Stupidiest Angel keels over. Not much good to us if you Rip Van Winkle early, are you?"'

"Dean," Sam warned.

Gabriel snapped his fingers, and the blade on the ground disappeared. A new one appeared in his own hand. He twisted it, letting it catch the dying light of the day. "Borrowed it off Raph years ago. Long before he met Cassie 1.0 and became a Jackson Pollock." 

Despite his flippancy, he cared about this unknown Castiel, whose life had touched so many lives. At least, he knew the difference between himself and the previous occupant of this vessel. 

Gabriel flipped the blade so the handle was held out to Sam. Sam took it. But Gabriel grabbed Sam by the hand and pulled him in close. "Bring him back in one piece, or you'll think the Mystery Spot a Disney vacation." 

Sam swallowed hard.

Jack just shivered. As Gabriel turned, wings arching, he gave their pupil a push. "You're up, kid. Try not to strike out." And then he cut the ether and was gone.

"Figured he'd skip out." Dean turned and gestured at the place that still resonated with energy, echoes from another time. Another place. In his memories, it glowed golden and destroyed lives. "You heard him. Get to ripping, kid."

Jack met Cassiel's eye.

Yes. It was time. Cassiel nodded and strummed an encouraging note, as well as he could. It sounded like crackling glass. 

Even so, the youth took heart. He hiked his wings and squared his shoulders and lifted his hand. He drew power diagonally through the air with a gesture. By the time the second bar of the “X” had been completed, the air glowed.

The last sigil was sketched, and for a second, it just hovered in the air like wisps of grace, but much stronger. Golden. It even had its own tone, so different than anything he had heard before.

Then the sigils pulsed. 

Once.

Twice.

And then in a burst of light, they conjoined, ripping through the ether to another world. 

It was beautiful and terrible at once.

Dean shook his head, flipped the blade in his hand, and stalked forward. He tossed over his shoulder without looking back. 

"What are we waiting for? The Devil’s not going to kill himself."


	34. Lucifer

Once on the other side of the rift, Cassiel wasted no time to correct that misapprehension. "We will not kill my brother, Dean."

Sam was busy scouring the place with his eyes, searching for sign of his mother. Jack, for his father. 

Dean was eager for a fight. Of any kind. "Then what are we here for? Are you going to slap one of those pacts on him?” He waved his hand. “No? Are you going to hug it out? Sit in a circle and take turns with ‘I feel’ statements? Wait--shut up." Dean snapped around, holding up a hand. Something in the wasteland, wracked with lightning and smelling of death, had caught his attention. He turned about in a circle. Then he completed it again more rapidly and more widely, encompassing them all. "Where's Mom? Do you see her tracks, Sam?"

Jack pointed something out on the sand masked by the smoke.

Blood. 

Just beyond it, though, Cas saw something that had once been life. Something that had been important to them, in some way. The final resting place of a curious creature who had died for them. A friend of sorts. 

Not a human, but not an angel. 

It shouldn't be too costly to restore. He staggered to it, dropped to his knees, and raised the creature.

Sam made a choking sound behind him. "M-Mom?" His thoughts a chain of nos.

Of the humans, Dean saw first and let out the breath he was holding. "Crowley."

The new creature blinked up at savior. "Feathers?"

Cassiel sighed. "No. Cassiel. And you are a demon named Crowley." Given he could not even lift his wings at the moment, he resorted to his vessel’s senses. He looked the creature up and down, focusing on the red, twisting features hidden beneath the human vessel. "I never met a demon before. Fascinating."

"Wonderful. Welcome back. So if that's not Mom or Lucy,” Dean said, turning in a half circle again, “then where are they?"

 _Alive?_ he dared to hope. _Please, God, give us something here._

Sam’s thoughts were much the same.

The demon was ignorant.

Jack was worried.

"Swiftly approaching,” Cassiel answered and tried to rise. Found he couldn't. He flopped back into the bitter sand; his wings so weak they couldn’t even kick up the dust or alter the drift of gloom. "Be ready."

"How swift--?"

From the gloom, hooded figures approached, weapons pointing their way.

"That swift, huh?" Sam finished, raising his weapon. It wavered with his rising hopes. "Mom?"

As dull as his senses were, Cassiel could sense the newcomers’ myriad emotions: shock, surprise, fear. From their mother, joy. From the other two? Much calmer emotions. The one who resembled an old friend, a father figure, held the end of a leash. The collared one resembled a mother to the resurrected demon. 

“Mother?” He rose and dusted off his suit.

“Fergus?”

They were well matched in their emotions. Concern was wrapped about in darker emotions, indicating long unhealed wounds infected with blame and guilt and betrayal.

This held true even though each believed the other had died. 

The one named Bobby, however, remained the most practical minded of them all, and lowered his weapon. “Thought we had seen the last of you a while. If you boys aren’t the Devil then . . . “

“My brother is also . . . “

The world smelled raw as its ether was cut, protesting the intrusion. Then Lucifer landed in a flap of powerful, bright wings. Utter malice festered in his mind as he sing-songed, “Front and center, boys.”

They all turned on him, most out of fear, most out of malice, hate. Weapons discharged. 

And his brother took it.

Not without pain or damage.

When the bullets of transformed angel blades and the spell of the one called a witch ran out, Lucifer was still standing.

Perforated.

Unsteady.

But largely unharmed. 

So they turned to blades.

Lucifer spread his arms as wide as his wings. “I’d say give it your best shot, but I think you already have.” Fire burned behind his eyes with intensity. He lifted his hand, readying fingers to snap. “My turn.”

This would not end well. In fact, it would end up in another layer of dust coating this dead land. 

That was definitely not part of his plan.

Cas struggled to stand. Failed. Reached out with hand and wing, imploring, “Brother, please.”

With a smirk, Lucifer turned to him. “Too late to hop aboard the winning train. Besides, didn’t I already give you the boo—“ He cocked his head. His hand lowered, fingers going slack. The heat in his eyes guttered. _“Cassiel?”_

Finally.

Someone recognized him. Which was just as well, for Cassiel was no mood to sing at the moment. 

For one second, his big brother just stared. The others watched warily, expecting the worst. Then once his mind caught up to what his feathers and eyes beheld, Lucifer lunged.

Dean shouted with soul and heart and words, “NO!” Sam caught him around the torso and his mother lent her strength. “Not again,” Dean whispered, so lost.

But wrath, pain, violence was not Lucifer’s intent. He pulled Cassiel to his feet and enwrapped him wing and arm in a hug. It almost crushed him with its intensity and longing. “Cassiel.”

Then he stiffened as his wings sensed at last his son. His son who had ducked behind a pillar during the attack, willing himself hidden. Who had peeked out, worried as Dean about Cassiel’s survival.

“Son?” Lucifer turned to him, never releasing Cassiel.

“His name is Jack. I’ve taken him under my wing.”

When he was happy, Lucifer could light up the heavens. He was never more beautiful than he was now. “He could have no better instructor, my brother.”

And such words never hurt as much.

“That is not true. If it were, you would not be in this place. You would not be working to harm my charges and the ones they love.”

Lucifer’s senses were torn; so were his emotions. He couldn’t find balance between being with the brother he loved and the son he craved. Both were so near, both so long denied him: it didn’t take an angel to read his disequilibrium.

Lucifer did not take his eyes, neither wing nor vessel’s, off Jack, but he did answer Cassiel, stroking his wings, trying to soothe, mindful of their current fragility. 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Cassiel. At least, _you_ tried. But the alteration of my purpose--" The words were spoken with loathing. "--wasn’t enough. We can’t change our nature.” He stepped back and held Cassiel at arm’s length. “Speaking of nature, dear old champion, what have you done to yourself?”

Cassiel nodded at Jack who shrank back behind the pillar he was peeking out. “Repairing the damage your son had wrought. They are nothing but the results of my poor mismanagement.” But as Lucifer took in him, he took in Lucifer. “Oh, brother, I am not the only one who needs healing.” 

Anger boiled in Lucifer. Pain boiled. Everything, boiled.

Not unlike this world. In Lucifer waged a relentless war.

“Where do I begin?” Cassiel whispered. The he stopped looking and started to perform his role. _First things first,_ he thought, and cupped Lucifer’s face in his hands and sent him healing waves and his last song.

Full of love, strength, healing.

It might not be beautiful, this song, but it was powerful.

Light poured out Lucifer’s eyes. Shock filled him. Then awe and delight.  
But swiftly it faded.

Powerful that it was, it was not enough. Not even if he had all the stores he had woken with, it never be enough. 

Lucifer caught Cassiel as he fell, and Sam and Mary once again restrained Dean as he tried to come to his side.

 _Some much spent, so little done._ Failure. “Once again, I chose wrongly. I should have gone to you after I restored his mother. Perhaps, given a couple centuries . . . now you will have to wait even longer. And you’ve waited so long.”

Lucifer snorted. “Why waste your time on that bitch? She served her purpose.”

This time Jack darted to Cassiel’s side. “Don’t talk about my mother that way.” His wings hardened into sharp metal.

Once again, Lucifer ignored what he wanted to. Which was much. 

“You have no need of her, son.” He held out a hand. “Come.” His gaze took in Cassiel. “Between the my son and me, we can slow gutting of your grace and power, and we’ll claim the worlds as our own. We’ll be kings, and remake everything in our image.”

That was not in Cassiel’s plans. But the hope it gave several of their party was insidious, spreading like virulence. Before the temptation could upset the balance of their purpose, Cassiel nodded to Jack.

“Do as Gabriel taught you.”

He blinked, wings no longer battle-ready. “But.”

“Gabriel?” Lucifer tilted his head, pain and anger roughing his voice. “You restored him?”

“Now, Jack.”

Jack hesitated, then firmed his shoulders and wings and resolve. He darted forward. “Sorry.” And he placed his hand on the one Lucifer held extended.

But it was not to embrace or join with him.

It was to cause necessary pain.

For sometimes, giving pain was necessary to heal.

Lucifer screamed and sank to his knees, dragging Cassiel and Jack with him. The distraction made the youth’s power flicker, briefly, but not his intent. 

Soon it surged fresh, stronger.

When he was done, golden light snaked through Lucifer’s grand, shaking wings, limning feathers, before pooling into special sections. There the light throbbed, awaiting orders.

“Treaty of the . . . Thousand Golden Snakes?” Dean asked. _Sounds like a Bruce Lee film. But without the fighting._

“No.” Cassiel nodded.

Jack swayed and regained his feet, one leg at a time, pulling his hand from Lucifer’s slack grip. But he moved swiftly enough, holding out his hands, wings pointing at Lucifer. “Lucifer, as your superior in power, I set as your charge this version of Earth.” 

Cassiel flicked a wingtip.

“Oh, yeah--and every inhabitant on it.” He half-turned to Cassiel, wing’s quirked with exhilaration of success. “That’s it, right?”

“Yes.”

The command pulsed from Jack’s wings and hands into his father’s, thrusting him back several steps with its intensity. It drew in the rest of the “golden snakes,” throbbing, once, twice, and then with a sudden burst of force, it forced Lucifer to his hands and knees.

Such a powerful bestowal of a charge was not easy to recover from, for either son or father.

Jack landed on backside, wings sprawling.

His father screamed, arching, twisting, before collapsing completely to the dusty ground. 

Both lay their panting a moment. 

Just panting.

Then Jack rose, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Cassiel?”

Lucifer said nothing, head and wings pressed into the dust of countless deaths.

But Cassiel felt a vast swell of nothing from his brother.

Finally, he spoke. “Et tu, brother?” Fingers dug into the barren earth. He sniffed. “Fine.” He lifted his wings and head, eyes blazing. “You know that vessel belonged to someone else who tried to punish me—“

“It’s not—“

“Say hello to him, would you?”

And he lunged, all fire and devastation. 

His flight was arrested in midair. By a twist of Jack’s wrist. 

The power sent him sailing back, back, back through the ether, sheer across the continent. They watched him land with a thud.

At first, he didn’t move.

Then a few feathers twitched.

“That won’t last.” Jack grabbed Cassiel’s arm. “I should have added us to the bond. So stupid.” His wings thunked against each other with self-recrimination and disappointment. His palm smacked himself in the forehead.  
“You did very well. Perhaps in a quarter millennia, his temper will have cooled enough we can try healing him again.”

The others reacted, moving beyond shock. Dean first, some hopeful notes playing in his thoughts. “Stellar job, kid. A+. Now let’s get out of here.” 

He grabbed Cassiel, pulling him away from Jack. And Jack, coming far in a short time, let him go with only a frisson of disgust. Dean draped Cassiel’s arm over his shoulders and started him in the direction of the rift. 

The fact that he could manage Cassiel so easily was testament to Cassiel’s state. Sleep would not be denied soon; it was already licking at his wingtips, held back by sheer force of will alone.

No one had to be told twice. Only Bobby hesitated before shrugging and slinging his weapon so its barrel rested over his shoulder. “I guess I can always find a new hobby. Take up demon horn macramé or something.” 

“Actually,” Sam said, “I believe we are working on closing hell.” He arched an eyebrow at Crowley who shrugged as he backed through the rift and disappeared in a flash of golden light. “So no more demons,” Sam added.  
Their mother and the others said nothing as they stepped through. 

“Later,” Dean said. He gave his brother a one-handed shove through the rift, tightened his grip on Cassiel, and walked them through, his thoughts sliding toward “hopeful” scale once more.


	35. The Promise

The rift closed behind them. Then opened again. The air danced with Jack’s work, emitting a slightly different song than before, because he sought a different world than before.

These actions did not go unnoticed, and fear tinged Dean’s words. “What are you doing?” Fear bound up in one word “Lucifer.”

“Leaving.” He glanced back at Dean nervously, tiredly. “Don’t worry; it’s not the same place. I’m not that stupid.”

“Wonderful. Bon voyage—after you fix Cas.”

The demand rippled through Jack’s feathers, playing on his hope, uncertainty, sorrow. He shook his head. “I can’t—I’m not even sure he . . . He could have been lying.”

“Daddy said you could.” Dean adjusted his grip on Cassiel. “So you’re going to try.”

 _Oh, Dean. That’s not the plan._ But Cassiel only said, “His departure ensures his and his mother’s safety, in case Lucifer seems . . . opposed to further healing.”

“I’d say he was opposed,” Sam muttered.

Though his time was all but spent, though his senses had all but closed in preparation to sleep, Cassiel did not miss the sudden nearness of another human’s worry. Kelly stood in the doorway of the house, to catch her breath, for her mind to banish fears and catch up to what she saw. Once it did, she stopped wringing her hands, and her hopes surged. She ran across the sand and called for her son. 

Jack whipped around and met her half way, joy singing through his thoughts and body. He was eager to see through the plan Cassiel had delivered during the long drive in the vehicle named Baby. 

He had not originally been so when he had thought he was being sent away alone.

What the difference healing and balance made.

When the two pulled apart from their hug, when the mother had satisfied herself by skating her hands over and checking every limb was intact, Cassiel intruded at last:

“Continue with your training and your healing away from this Earth, Jack. We will meet in time, and I look forward to seeing what you’ve learned.”

“I’ll miss you.” Jack practically jerked Cassiel from Dean’s side with the fierceness of his hug. “Sorry.” He soothed his wings over Cassiel’s that trembled with pain. “I love you, Stepfather. I always will.” 

“As I love you, young one.”

Bouncing on his toes, tiredness forgotten, Jack relinquished his hold on Cassiel and turned to Kelly.

Dean wasn’t quite so eager to relinquish the desperate hopes he had built in his head. He argued with Jack up until the moment the kid with a sad wave farewell stepped through with his mother, and the rupture closed. 

Then there was just the place where hope had been, and Dean growled out a string of curses. He glared unseeingly at those watching silently. Then his plans sheered away as smoothly as any angel could in flight. He craned back his head and shouted at the darkening sky, “Gabriel! Get your feathery ass down here. Now!”

“He won’t come. He is busy creating order in heaven.”

“Gabriel!” 

“There’s nothing he can—“

“GABRIEL!”

“Does someone mind catching me up?” The one named Bobby spoke up, breaking the others’ silence. He used a finger on the hand not holding the witch’s leash and poked it in his ear. “Sounds like trench coat’s on his deathbed. Looks like it too.” 

_If you think my vessel is doing poorly, you should see my wings._ They dragged intangibly through the earth, growing lifeless with need to sleep, with lack of energy. They would drag him away before long.

Within moments.

“No,” Sam and Dean said. 

“He’s not dying,” Dean continued on alone. His hopes seized on two of those gathered. “Not unless you can help him.”

The one named Rowena apologized, “Sorry, dearie, but he’s spent.” 

Crowley shook his head. “Not sure anything can help but a mercy poke in the head.” At the dirty looks Sam, Dean, and their mother sent him, he held up fending off hands. “Or a very long rest. Thanks for the helping hand, Feathers 2.0. Boys, I’ll be in touch.” 

And he disappeared—taking the alternate version of his mother with him. That evoked a strong curse from the alternate Bobby as he spun around, looking for her.

Mary reached out to Dean, wanting to comfort, but she hesitated and changed her mind. “Bobby, I think we better go inside and see if there is anything to clean up.” 

“The fridge would be nice start. Got any beer?”

She smiled and touched his hand and led him away. “I’ll see what I can do.”

And that left Cassiel alone with his two charges. Dean tried shouting again, but he wasn’t good at waiting or relying on anyone other than his family. 

That didn’t stop him from being disappointed. With a snarl, he tried to lead Cassiel away from The Spot. “It’s fine. We’ll figure something out. We always do. Sam, get the summoning crap from the trunk. We’ll force the grand dick’s feathery ass down here.” He turned a shaky smile on “Cas.” “In the meantime, let’s top you off the old fashioned way. You know, the soul thing? That’ll help right.”

No, he didn’t know. No, it sounded painful and destructive. Worse of all, wasteful.

He was shaking his head, wishing he had the power to halt Dean’s forward movement, when Sam stepped forward and blocked their path. “You said you saved enough for one more?”

“What the hell is wrong with you? Does it look like needs to speed along his Rapunzel act—“

“Rip Van Winkle.”

“Whatever, Sammy. We can keep him going until Gabe and the rest of the dicks earn their keep. You got the list of reboots? We’ll keep dialing until one of them picks up.”

Cassiel met Sam’s eye. “I will find the strength to keep my promise.”

Dean froze.

His pain and grief were strong enough that Sam could pull Cassiel away and guide him back to The Spot, as they both thought of it. 

The place where one they missed had fallen.

After a moment, Dean gave a whole body shudder and turned about. He did not move closer. The Spot repulsed him. He just watched and pleaded, “Sammy, come on. You don’t have to do this. He is Cas.”

But the younger brother could be as stubborn as the elder. He remained unconvinced. And his desire to reunite with his friend remained unshaken. He was sorry to see Cassiel go; but it was worth it see Castiel return.

“Sammy. It’s not worth the risk.”

Sam helped Cassiel kneel before the smudges of scorched grace.

“Cas, please.”

“When I woke, I felt you Dean. Your need, and my responsibility to relieve your hurts. I have failed in this regard. I have failed you and your brother as a guardian and a healer.” He looked tiredly over his shoulder. “I’m not the one you want or need. _He_ is.”

Cassiel reached out, half falling over the impossible essence burned into the ground. He caught himself with both hands. And he pulled on his power one last time.

He lifted his wings last time.

Pain made him cry out. Claw at the charred earth. 

Dean shouted for him “Cas, no!” 

Sam stopped, grabbing on to him. “No, Dean. We need him to.”

“It’s Cas!”

“It will be.”

And Cassiel poured the last of his strength into his promise and reached for Castiel.

The one he held this vessel before him.

The one who existed only in memories of so many people.

The only one who could heal his charges. 

The one they loved.

And Cassiel knew him at last.


	36. In Between

When he restored people, Cassiel saw fragments of their life.

In Castiel, he saw deaths. 

The first came when he decided to rebel against his brethren for his charge’s safety and plans. In punishment, Raphael scattered his vessel and essence throughout the room.

The second came when he was weaker and getting his first real taste of human life. It did not particularly agree with him. Even so, the time at his charge’s side had strengthened his resolve. He stood against Lucifer, attacked him, and was scattered again.

The third time he was destroyed by creatures made before Cassiel’s time, before any angel’s time. Though Cassiel could not understand how that could be, since they were not there in the War against the Darkness. Neither, for that matter, had been Castiel or many of the later brethren. Time travel must have been involved. Either way, Castiel stood apart from Dean and Sam with this act. Guilt ate at him for years after, stronger than the combined hunger of the monsters he had unreleased upon the world. 

The fourth time he was human as any angel could be and unable to see much less anticipate the betrayal of one of their cousins, the reaper. They had been spared Jack’s wrath because they had not been called to join in the attack. Castiel did not understand why the reaper had stabbed him, nor did Cassiel.

Cassiel understood the final death even less. Castiel stood triumphant before the rift; seconds later, Lucifer stabbed him in the back, giving him the scattering, burning death. 

It was not the rage or the act that escaped Cassiel’s comprehension. He had seen the damage that festered in his brother and witnessed lesser angels’ propensity toward violence. Brothers did not hesitate to destroy brothers—and Castiel, well, ever since siding with his charges, he hesitated the least out of them all.

The wanton destructiveness infecting his brothers was beyond comprehension. Yet no more so than the truth.

For by the time Cassiel had glimpsed the last death, deception peeled away and exposed something that had been hidden from him and Castiel both, something meant to remain hidden.

Cassiel had been there every time.

It was not Father who consolidated Castiel’s scattered grace and vessel after Raphael and Lucifer’s attacks. It was him. Waking only seconds before being told to “sleep, child; it’s not time.” And so both times, he painfully folded back in on himself, one set of wings contorting, collapsing, disappearing, and Castiel awoke confused and wondering.

Cassiel had woken in the lake. He had remembered the water and delighting in it, wanting to discover more of it. But all too soon the command came: “Sleep; it’s not your time.” Obeying, he folded himself away, and Castiel stumbled out, lost and confused into a woman’s care. Father had sent her.

After the reaper, he had been in between—not quite Castiel, not quite Cassiel—when another angel, the one Sam and Dean loathed, revived him. Cassiel had slipped back into sleep on his own that time. Castiel did not awaken an angel, but as a not-quite human again. 

This final time, he stayed awake. He was meant to be.

But so was Castiel.

While being privy to Castiel’s life, he had been remaking him and healing him as much as possible. 

Now Cassiel stopped, confused, thinking, realizing, _That is why I did not know you. Dean was right. I am you--_

And the world exploded into light and pain as the folding began.


	37. Castiel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do have plans for one or two sequels.

He woke to Dean’s shaking fingers taking the pulse under his jaw and the other hand bunching and unbunching in his coat. “—it was him. We could have fixed him. He was too weak.”

“Dean—“ Sam tried to break in.

“No, dammit!”

Castiel’s lungs contracted sharply, and he gasped and tried to sit up and failed.

The sharp edges of the argument, the anger, the hurt cut off abruptly. Replaced by something even stronger: hope. So strong, so abrupt was the shift, it was dizzying. 

_"Cas?"_ Dean asked. 

Castiel opened his and blinked up at Dean and Sam and the unspoken question heavy in their thoughts. “Yes.”

"Castiel?"

He had already answered this. "Yes. Who else would I be? Are you hur--?”

They hauled him upright and engulfed him in a group hug almost suffocating with its intensity. 

Cas had a feeling something momentous had happened, but he had no idea what. “I feel like I missed something,” he stated as he wrapped his arms around them.

They laughed. But they were crying too.

“Dean, Sam, what's wrong?”

“Nothing.” They hugged him tighter, not wanting to let go. “Everything’s good.”

Whatever it was, the worst of the sorrow seemed to have passed. They weren’t in danger. Instead, they radiated the fact that everything was right in the world.

Soon enough he’d have raise full barriers to give them their privacy. Soon enough he’d have to uncover what he’d missed, what he’d forgotten and why.

For now, Cas enjoyed the openness and their delight with him, even as some apprehension told him it wouldn’t last. It never did. He always sinned. But for the moment, this was all he needed. And so he added all six wings to the embrace, despite the pain, and basked in their longing, their need, their want. 

They pulled away at last. Sam’s hand scrunching up the coat at his shoulder. Dean’s hand cupping his neck, thumb brushing his jaw. 

Love poured out as they spoke as one: “Let’s go home.”


End file.
